


The Dragon and Her Wolves

by hapakitsune



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Canon Compliant, F/F, F/M, Game of Thrones Spoilers, Implied Relationships, Incest, Marriage of Convenience, Multi, POV Multiple, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations, Threesome - F/F/M, a new exciting kind of incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-11
Updated: 2019-03-31
Packaged: 2019-04-21 08:44:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 59,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14281254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hapakitsune/pseuds/hapakitsune
Summary: When the truth of Jon's birthright is revealed, control of the North and Daenerys's claim to the Iron Throne are both called into question. To preserve their tenuous alliance and secure her rule, Daenerys puts aside her personal feelings to arrange a marriage of political convenience between Jon and Sansa Stark. Yet matters of the heart are complicated, and as they work to save the Seven Kingdoms from the Night King and Cersei Lannister, the three of them find that it isn't easy to keep their emotions in check.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic pulls primarily from show canon, but has elements from the books and the Telltale game. Violence, if any, is likely to be in line with canon, and there will be fairly frank discussion of sexual assault and abuse. 
> 
> This will either be five chapters or like thirty-five, depending on how I feel after conquering the main summit of the idea. I decided to do this as a WIP despite my general aversion because it's the only way i can guilt myself into finishing. Also, this is the cheesiest summary I've ever written. A better summary is the word doc name for this, which is "keepin it in the family.docx." You're welcome for not using that.

When Daenerys Targaryen was a child, she dreamed of being queen. 

In that way, she was no different from any other girl her age. Many of them dreamed of being queens, free from their petty troubles, free from poverty in the streets of Volantis where she and her brother begged for coin. Unlike other girls, she had the blood; she had the silver hair and the blue-violet eyes of a Targaryen; and she had her brother, who was so firm in his belief that he would rule that it never occurred to him to doubt. Before she was old enough to understand what marriage was, she had thought she would marry Viserys, just as their parents, siblings too, had married, and she saw nothing wrong with that. She loved her brother, after all. 

As she grew older, she realized that she would not be queen, not while her brother lived. She did not want a crown that was tied to him and his fits of rage, his grasping hands and his inability to listen to anyone else. And she was just a girl, not the crown prince. Not the heir. 

“I dreamed of being queen,” she said, gazing towards the west where she knew the rocky coast of Westeros waited for them to make landing, “and I never dreamed that it would bring me this. Monsters out of stories, and a queen who will burn her own city before seeing me on the throne.”

“I dreamed of riding a dragon,” Tyrion said, “but having met your children, I have to say I think that experience is best left to my sleeping hours.”

Daenerys looked to him, pressing her lips together. “You have no desire to ride Rhaegal? I am sure I could arrange it, if you like.”

“Not without you at hand, Your Grace,” Tyrion said. “I’ve cheated death enough. I don’t want to test my luck.”

Daenerys hid her smile and turned back to look out the horizon. The fog had come too low to see land, obscuring everything in a white mist, and even as she stood there a rock emerged from the haze, forcing the ship to turn sharply. She and Tyrion both grabbed for the railing to steady themselves. One of the Ironborn sailors—she did not know his name, she realized; she had too many people now to know their names—called out, “Your Grace, you ought to get below deck.”

Daenerys sighed, but made her way to the door that led to the lower decks, Tyrion at her heels. There was an awkward moment in the corridor where he waited for her, perhaps for an invitation to continue their conversation, but when she said nothing, he gave her a small nod and left for his cabin. Daenerys waited until he had gone, door shut snug behind him, before entering her quarters.

Jon was not there; at her request, he had not stayed the night, hadn’t even asked why she was sending him away. She liked Jon—liked him quite a lot—but she would not have people gossiping on who she took to her bed. It was the first instinct of the weak upon meeting her—who is the dragon queen fucking? They assumed she was either frigid or a whore, and if they knew that she had taken the King of the North into her bed, well. There would be jokes. Tyrion would want to know if she planned to wed him. And Jorah—she did not want her allies at odds over something as trivial as sex. 

And—there was something intolerable in the idea of him sleeping beside her. She had not slept with a man in her bed since Drogo had died. One day, perhaps, she would no longer feel as though she carried his ghost with her. 

She spent the afternoon reading a stack of reports compiled by Varys and Tyrion about the state of the kingdoms over the past two decades. Her education had been erratic, to say the least, and while she understood some aspects of ruling instinctively, there were so many more intricacies to the management of finances, the control and granting of land, the appointing of council members and ministers who oversaw the minutiae of governing. This was the part of being queen she had never thought about as a girl—it was hardly romantic—but she was learning that there was more to ruling than armies and passing down proclamations. 

She took supper in her quarters along with a quiet discussion with her council regarding how to introduce the northern lords to Daenerys’s army. Davos, Varys, and Tyrion left one by one, leaving Jon and Daenerys speaking of the lords she would meet and how she ought to approach them. 

“I am eager for you to meet Lyanna Mormont,” Jon was saying. “And for Ser Jorah as well. She is the bluntest person I have ever met, and fearless too. If you can win her favor, she will be a formidable ally.”

“She sounds fearsome,” Daenerys said absently, watching Jon’s mouth rather than paying close attention. Jon noticed after a moment and smiled slowly, a hint of unexpected and wholly welcome wickedness in his eyes. 

“Your Grace seems distracted,” he said. “Is there anything I can do to make this more interesting for you?”

“Taking off your shirt might help,” Daenerys said. 

To her surprise, Jon leaned back and began to pluck at the ties of his doublet, his gaze not leaving hers. She bit her lip, worming a hand between her thighs to give her some kind of pressure, as he unveiled himself to her, his finely-honed body laid bare for her approval. Before they had been hurried, hardly speaking a word to each other in their eagerness to press skin to skin, and Daenerys had no time to truly savor the sight of him. 

He was beautiful. She had thought that the first moment he walked into her throne room. He was not the hard, carved handsomeness of Drogo or the refined and cared for beauty of Daario. Jon was rough and practical in a way they hadn’t been, without the need to show his status in his clothing. He fought not for enjoyment or profit, but because he considered it his duty, and that pragmatism and sense of honor colored him. 

Jon shed his shirt entirely, and Daenerys stifled a gasp. She had felt his scars before, but now she could see them all, in detail she had not taken time to notice before. She rose from the table and came to stand in front of him, staring at one in particular: the mark across he heart. 

“You told me Lord Davos was exaggerating,” Daenerys said, reaching out to lightly touch her fingers to the raised skin. It was healed, but it did not look it, still puckered and ugly as though he had been stabbed yesterday and not a year before. “But you did take a knife to the heart.” 

Jon didn’t answer. His skin was pebbling beneath her touch, the fine hair on his arms rising. Daenerys pressed her fingernail into the scar, and he shuddered, eyelids fluttering. “You were murdered, and yet here you stand.”

“The Red Woman brought me back,” Jon said. He had made no move to touch her yet, watching her for permission. She had not yet grown tired of wielding the power over who could lay their hands on her. “She said the Lord of Light still has a purpose for me.”

“Do you believe her?” Daenerys flattened her hand to his chest, seeking out the thump of his heart. There it was—slow, but steady. 

“I don’t know,” Jon said. “I was raised in the ways of the Old Gods. What about you?”

“I have walked through fire,” Daenerys said. “I have seen the birth of three creatures thought extinct. I brought the Dothraki across the sea and I faced an army of dead men. I don’t need to know what the gods require of me. I only need to know what I require of myself.” 

Jon smiled. “May I kiss you, my lady?”

“Please do,” Daenerys said. 

Jon did much better with the lacings on her gown this time around. Daenerys could not help laughing at him when he swore under his breath at discovering more laces hidden at her wrists. He mock-glared at her.

“Does Missandei sew you into your gowns every day?” he asked. The ties at her wrist loosened at last. “Aha!”

“I must admit her help is invaluable,” Daenerys said, then inhaled sharply as Jon pressed his lips to the underside of her arm. 

By the time Jon had finished removing all of Daenerys’s layers, every inch of her skin was singing with the desperate desire to be touched. He was deliberate about when and where his hands brushed against her, tantalizingly close to caresses but not quite enough. Her patience finally ran out as he eased off her smallclothes, and she grabbed for his trousers with trembling hands. 

He caught her fingers and said, “Wait.”

“Wait?” she said indignantly as he guided her toward the bed and knelt at her feet. It took her a moment to catch on, but then he gently nudged at her knee. “ _Oh_ ,” she said, and she let her legs open to him. 

Daenerys had to bite her fist to muffle her cries as he brought her twice to climax, his talented tongue a torment and a blessing at once. She thought she might burst before she finally had him inside her again. She left scratches on his arms as she dragged him up and shoved him over onto his back. He blinked up at her in confusion as she took him in hand and lowered herself onto his cock, and then his expression melted into pure bliss as she rode him to her pleasure. 

After, they lay beside each other to catch their breath. Jon shifted over onto his side before long. Daenerys tolerated his stare for a minute before looking over at him with a raised eyebrow.

“What?” she asked.

“What did you think of me the first time we met?” 

Daenerys hadn’t expected that. She had to delve back in her memories, stripping away all she had learned about Jon since he had first arrived at Dragonstone to recall him as he had first appeared in her throne room. 

“Shorter than I imagined,” she said. Jon snorted, but didn’t interrupt. “Handsome. Headstrong and determined to be a hero. You fit much of what I’d heard about the northern lords in that way. Why do you ask?”

“It was—novel, to come before you and not be known only as Ned Stark’s bastard.” Jon smiled. “Though I don’t have nearly as many fancy titles as you.”

Daenerys smiled back at that. “I didn’t know Ned Stark.” Daenerys turned her gaze up to the ceiling. “Tyrion tells me he was an honorable man.”

“Too honorable,” Jon said. “He would do what his honor demanded even when it went against his best interests.”

“Like father, like son.” Daenerys turned over onto her side and lightly ran her fingers over his arm. “Tyrion also tells me that there was ‘a whole brood’ of Starks. Is that true?”

“Five trueborn children, myself, and Theon,” Jon said. “Robb, Theon, and I were close enough in age that we did nearly everything together until we got old enough to insist otherwise.”

“I forgot you were raised with Theon.” Daenerys was tracing absent patterns now, watching in fascination as the fine hairs rose beneath her touch. “It must have been such a full life, with so many of you around.” Daenerys had only had Viserys for companionship, and he was hardly an exemplary brother. Jon spoke of his family with such warmth that it made Daenerys envious. She was not accustomed to feeling envious.

“I suppose,” Jon said, seemingly surprised by the idea. “I never thought of it that way. It’s strange, being a bastard. Theon must have felt something of the same, being a ward of our house. We were treated like family when we were in private, but we weren’t _really_ part of the family. Father tried his best to treat us equally, but when I was young, every tiny difference between me and Robb seemed to be multiplied a thousand-fold.”

“And Robb was the King in the North before you.”

“Yes, when our father was killed, they chose him. He was brilliant. If he’d had more time, or if he were just a bit older, a bit wiser, maybe he’d have lived. Maybe it would have been him here with you.”

“I’m sure he was wonderful,” Daenerys said, “but I confess I’m glad it isn’t him.” She stroked his jaw, scratching at his beard to see him tilt into her touch. “Unless he was much handsomer than you.”

“Oh, he was,” Jon said. “You got the lesser of the Stark brothers in that regard.”

“How unfortunate,” Daenerys said. She knew she was smiling widely, openly, as she hadn’t in a long while. Jon drank her in with his gaze, the intensity of his stare so great that she felt her limbs heat, the desire in her belly rise. She kissed him to distract herself—not the most effective method, she granted, but perhaps the most enjoyable—and when they at last parted she said, “Tell me of the other Starks, then.”

Jon huffed out a laugh. “Are you asking as my queen?”

“I suppose,” Daenerys said. “I am to meet your family in a matter of days, after all. Tell me what they’re like. Are they much like you?”

Jon shifted to slide his arm beneath her neck and drew her close while he thought. His skin was cool to the touch, Daenerys noted, but the chill in the air made it impossible to tell if that was natural or a remnant of his gift from the Lord of Light. She could not stop touching the scar at his heart; if Melisandre had not been there—if Jon had been killed in a more permanent way—she shoved those thoughts away. 

“Well, we’re all stubborn,” Jon said. “Though maybe that’s just the north.” He looped a strand of her hair around one finger and tugged gently, smiling at her. “Arya’s nearly as stubborn as you.”

“Arya,” Daenerys repeated, mouth rounding about the words. “Tell me about her.”

“She’s little,” Jon said. “But fierce. Always has been. Her mother despaired of her, but our father used to encourage her. Not in obvious ways, but he would let her watch when we would spar, take her out riding with us. Last I saw her, I gave her a sword, a little skinny thing. She called it Needle.”

Daenerys could picture the girl perfectly in her head—small, with Jon’s dark eyes and hair, fierce and quick with a smiling mouth and a bright laugh. “She was your favorite.” 

“Well—yes,” Jon said. “Robb was my best friend, a true leader, but when I was with him I always knew I was the bastard. Arya was a bit off, like me. We didn’t fit properly.”

“What of the others?” Daenerys asked. 

“I haven’t seen most of them in years,” Jon said, “not since I left for the Wall. Rickon was hardly out of the nursery when I left. He was so young, but he had fight in him. I don’t know what he was like after he was captured by the Boltons. I never got to know.” Jon’s hand tightened on her upper arm, then released. “I wonder often what kind of man he’d have grown up to be.”

“I’m sorry,” Daenerys said, but Jon didn’t seem to hear her; he was lost to memory.

“Bran wanted to be a knight, and perhaps he would have been, had he not fallen from the tower and broken his spine. He was so impatient and eager. When I left, he was still asleep from the fall. That he survived—my sisters say he is some kind of mystic now. He has visions.” Jon shook his head, mouth quirking into a wry smile. “One thing Starks have in common—we don’t do anything by half-measures, that’s for sure.”

“One raised from the dead, another with visions,” Daenerys said. “No, you certainly don’t.” She paused, trying to think of how to phrase her next question. “And your sister Sansa—Tyrion has told me a little of her, but she is Lady of Winterfell now, is she not? That is how I should greet her?”

“It would likely be well-received by the northern lords,” Jon said. “Sansa reminds them of Lady Catelyn, and she is the eldest trueborn child. Show respect to her and they will be more inclined to believe you truly mean to be an ally.” He did not remark on the mention of Tyrion, though his muscles had tensed at the reminder that her Hand had once been married to his sister. 

“And what of her?” Daenerys asked. “What should I know before we meet?”

Jon lay quiet for much longer than he had while thinking of his other siblings before he spoke. “Sansa is…we weren’t close, as children. She was to marry Prince Joffrey and become queen before our father was killed. I don’t think anyone could have guessed that she would have survived in King’s Landing and made it home, but she did. She survived Ramsay Bolton—the horrors of him I will not share—and she found me, and she brought me the forces I needed to retake Winterfell. She’s far cleverer than anyone ever gave her credit for, and even stronger than that.” He turned a small, fond smile to Daenerys. “I think you’ll like her.”

“She sounds like a formidable woman,” Daenerys said. There was a strange ache in her chest; after a moment, she realized it was longing. She had known Jon for all of a few months, and yet she wished to own those parts of him that came before her. She had never felt that way before, like she needed to know everything about someone. And yet there were these people—these siblings—who would likely always know him better than she ever would. 

Daenerys did not deceive herself about their future together. Jon was King of the North; to marry him would be to diminish her own power. Though Tyrion had suggested a strategic marriage, Daenerys had come to the conclusion that this could never be. No woman was safe on a throne with a husband, not in this world. Dorne would support her, but the others? No. Daenerys was the queen, unquestioned and uncontested; she would have to make that explicit to them all. 

And yet, when she lay beside Jon, she could imagine a future of this, of him beside her as she mused over the political intricacies of her kingdom. Tyrion was a good Hand, no question about it, but Jon understood the weight Daenerys felt. What’s more, though he clearly admired her, he was not in awe of her. He was never afraid to speak his mind, to contradict her. All wonderful things in a lover. All wretched things in a consort. 

“You look sad,” Jon said. He grazed the curve of his cheek with his knuckle. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” she said, and she turned her face up to his for a kiss

 

They made port in White Harbor late in the day on their sixth day of travel. They were greeted at the harbor by Lord Manderly and his men, who flanked him while eying Daenerys with suspicion. Manderly bowed to Jon with his hand over his heart, but did not offer the same to Daenerys, only regarded her with a suspicious eye. She bit her tongue and did not press the issue, knowing it was foolish to feel so offended by the absence of respectful address, not when the entire point of this meeting was to win the lords like Manderly to her cause.

“Your men have arrived in advance of you, my lady,” Manderly said when the formalities had been observed and introductions had been made. “They have made camp outside the city. Will you be staying with them?”

“We ride for Winterfell in the morning,” Jon said. “We would be grateful for a night of sleep in a bed that does not rock with the sea.”

“That I can offer you,” Manderly said. “As for Lady Targaryen, I’m afraid she will need to find shelter elsewhere.”

“ _Queen_ Daenerys has willingly abandoned her fight against the Lannisters to come north and assist us against the While Walkers,” Jon said, bristling, “and—” 

“Thank you, Lord Snow,” Daenerys said, cutting him off before he could speak for her. “Lord Manderly. It is a pleasure to meet you. I know that you do not trust me, and I can’t blame you for that. I am a stranger and, worse, a Targaryen, but can you at least trust that Jon Snow, King of the North, would not place his trust in just anyone?”

Manderly pursed his lips as though he’d tasted something sour. “Yes, I suppose.”

“Lord Snow has pledged his allegiance to my claim, but I know that I cannot expect his vassals to follow out of mere loyalty, nor would I ask them to. You have seen nothing of me to convince you either way, and I understand that.” Daenerys snuck a look toward Tyrion, who had been hanging back. He gave her a short nod of approval and a faint gesture for her to continue. “Tomorrow we ride to Winterfell to form the vanguard against the Army of the Dead. I invite you to join us and to hear me out. Will you come, Lord Manderly?”

Manderly looked from her to Jon. He squared his jaw, straightened up, and said, “If my king asks it of me, I will come.”

“I do ask it,” Jon said. “On behalf of my queen.”

Daenerys maintained her impassive expression by biting the inside of her cheek. Manderly nodded shortly, said, “Then I will be there, Your Grace,” gave a short bow, and left with his men. Manderly’s steward led them to the keep, where they were installed in a suite of rooms that were rather austere, if at least tolerably warm. Jon immediately surrendered the chamber clearly intended for him to Daenerys, and they gathered around the table to discuss their plans for the north. 

“I see what you mean about the northern lords being strong-willed,” Daenerys said, taking her seat with Missandei standing just behind her. As usual, Ser Davos was up and pacing, clearly uncomfortable sitting still for long. “I rather think Lord Manderly was inclined to let me sleep in the snow.”

Jon winced. “Lord Manderly is stubborn, yes. But he feels he owes me a debt of honor for not answering the call when Sansa and I came for help in retaking Winterfell. He’ll cooperate for that reason alone.”

“Loyalty to you is well and good, but we need to ensure that no one will stab the queen in the back,” Tyrion said. “What is the feeling on the Targaryens in the north, apart from your own families’ history?”

“Not overwhelmingly positive,” Jon said. “But they believe in those who prove themselves trustworthy. Pretty words won’t do you much good unless you have truth behind them.”

“Lady Lyanna Mormont is the most important in my book,” Ser Davos said. “She may be all of ten years old, but the other lords trust her opinion. More than that, if she agrees to follow you, she’ll shame the others into doing so as well. My advice? Don’t try to brush off mistakes. She doesn’t like that.”

“No,” Jon agreed, mouth quirking up into a half-smile. “She really doesn’t.”

“And the other lords?” Daenerys asked. Jon looked to Davos, who took out a map to spread across the table. They spent the next hour going over the families of the north, those who could be trusted and those whose loyalty could be shaken. Daenerys paid close attention to their expressions, which often told her more than their words. Tyrion offered words on a few of the houses, noting that Lady Mira of House Forrester had been a loyal handmaiden of Margaery Tyrell, and that the Ryswells should be carefully watched after their eagerness to ally with the Boltons. 

More than anything, Daenerys was struck by how many houses had lost their lords, their heirs, and their property in the War of the Five Kings. The war was more than Cersei Lannister and her pernicious iron grip on the throne. Daenerys had always known that, but now she could see it laid out before her. 

“We need the northern houses to be at their best if we are to fight the Night King,” she said when they had finished. “What can we do to restore those houses that have been most hurt?”

“Very little, as now,” Jon said. “We can only offer them protection from the coming storm.”

Daenerys contemplated the map before her and vowed to herself that she would redress the poisonous effects of the war, as much as she could. The crown existed not to bleed its vassals dry, but to work in tandem with the people. She would have to do better than those who came before her. 

“Very well,” she said. “Thank you for your counsel.” She rose to her feet, and Jon and Tyrion rose as well. “Let us not delay. We ride for Winterfell in the morning. The Dothraki and the Unsullied will follow, but I will leave them a distance from the castle until I have spoken with the northern lords. I don’t wish them to feel besieged.”

“A wise decision, Your Grace,” Tyrion said. “We will leave you to rest.”

Jon lingered a moment longer than the others, looking back at Daenerys until she gave a short nod. He nodded back to her and closed the door behind him, leaving Daenerys with Missanedei. Daenerys turned to look at her and found that Missandei was smirking—not obviously, but Daenerys knew her every expression now. 

“What?” Daenerys said snappishly. 

“Nothing, Your Grace,” Missandei said. She moved to begin unbraiding Daenerys’s hair so she could take a real, full bath. “I am glad for you, is all.”

“There’s nothing to be glad for,” Daenerys said. She sounded unconvincing even to her own ears. Missandei did her the courtesy of not acknowledging it. 

Daenerys slept fitfully, her dreams filled with visions of the White Walkers and Viserion sinking below the ice. She woke early and stood at her window to watch the courtyard of the castle, where people were already coming and going about their daily business. Snow was falling; she hadn’t truly appreciated the sight of snow in her fevered flight north of the wall. As a child she had listened to stories of frozen water falling from the sky and she had thought it as fantastical as dragons. 

The road to Winterfell was hard and long; by the time they arrived, Daenerys wished she could have simply taken Drogon and made the distance in half a day or less. Any amazement she had felt at the sight of snow had vanished in the face of having to ride through it. Her traitorous advisors seemed to find her discomfort amusing, gently teasing her about being a creature of warmth when she huddled closer to the fire at night. 

“I don’t see you doing much better, Lord Tyrion,” she said acidly, raising her eyebrows at his heavy fur-lined cloak. “Is Casterly Rock known to get much snow?”

Tyrion laughed and raised his mug of ale in a toast. “Excellent point, Your Grace.”

They could see Winterfell long before they had arrived; it loomed large and imposing against the skyline. She somehow had not pictured it being quite so big, though when she thought of it, she realized that of course it was. Winterfell wasn’t just another keep, it was the seat of the north and the home of kings. Jon brightened at the sight of his home, spurring his horse forward seemingly without realizing it. 

When they rode through the gates, there was a welcoming party awaiting them, bearing sigils she recognized from the long conversation of the northern houses. But her gaze was drawn to the three figures at the center: a girl, small, in a jerkin and trousers with a slender sword at her side; a boy sat in a wheeled chair; and a tall young woman with flaming red hair and a regal bearing. These, she knew, must be the Starks. 

Jon flung himself down from his horse, heedless of ceremony. Daenerys dismounted with considerably more reserve and watched as Jon embraced them each in turn. He spoke to them quietly for a moment, then turned to look back at Daenerys. She offered him a small smile and gave a slight nod to indicate that he should take the lead. 

“Lords and ladies of the north,” Jon said. “I present Daenerys of the House Targaryen, the rightful queen of the Seven Kingdoms. She has come here in good faith to offer her assistance in our war against the Night King. I ask that you hear her out tonight when we hold council.” He looked back at his siblings. “Your Grace, I present my family. Lady Arya, Lord Bran, and Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell.”

Daenerys inclined her head, feeling strangely—nervous? How absurd. “It is a great honor to meet you after all Lord Snow has told me.”

There was a brief pause where no one said anything. Then Sansa swept into a deep, beautiful curtsey, the kind that came from long practice and court training. Around the courtyard, everyone followed her lead, though some were less deferential than others. Arya bowed, one hand behind her back, and Bran gave a deep nod. 

“You may rise,” Daenerys said. Sansa straightened and met Daenerys’s gaze. Daenerys had expected a girl who looked like Jon—like Arya, really, with dark features and a sturdy frame. Instead, Sansa was slender and tall, with that lovely red hair that fell nearly to her waist. And she was shockingly beautiful, finely carved features and bright blue eyes that held a weariness beyond her years.

“We welcome you to Winterfell,” Sansa said. “I thank you for everything you have done for my brother.” She looked past Daenerys to those who had come with her—Jorah, Missandei, Grey Worm, and Tyrion. For a moment her expression flickered, becoming strained at the mouth, before she became impassive once more. “Let us go inside where it’s warm.”

They gathered in a room off the main hall that was warmed with a roaring fire, where they were joined by Davos and the tall knight called Brienne. A round-faced young man was awaiting them, and when Jon entered the room, he cried out, “Jon!”

“Sam?” Jon asked, voice filled with disbelief. “What are you doing here?” He crossed the room and seized the young man in an embrace before stepping back. “I thought you were at the Citadel.”

“I was,” Sam said. “But I thought I could do more good here, so I came back.”

“And Gilly and little Sam?”

“Safe and comfortable here, thanks to your sister,” Sam said, nodding towards Sansa. “Never mind me, we’ve got things to be getting on with.”

“Oh—yes, of course.” Jon seemed to remember the rest of them. “I suppose there are a great many introductions to be made. This is Samwell Tarly. We served together at the Wall.”

Daenerys reflexively looked toward Tyrion. He tilted his head, silently urging her to speak, and Daenerys swallowed hard. She had never met the family of anyone she had killed before. She did not regret ordering their deaths; it had been necessary, as a demonstration. But here was their son, their brother, and she had to tell him she had ordered his family’s deaths. Jon seemed to have realized his mistake, as he started to speak, but Daenerys held up her hand to stop him. She would have to get used to this, she realized. There would always be survivors, and she would have to learn to answer to them. 

“Samwell Tarly,” she said, meeting his eyes. He had a guileless face, a kind face. Jon’s friend. “Your father and brother took up arms against my ally, House Tyrell. When I defeated their army, they refused to bend the knee.” She paused, hoping someone else would step in; but the room was deathly silent. “I executed them.”

“Ah,” Sam said after a moment. “So that’s how they died.” He looked around, an apologetic smile on his face. His voice quavered slightly as he said, “I had heard, you see, but I didn’t know. My mother didn’t say how when she wrote me.”

“They died bravely,” Daenerys said, knowing even as she said it that it was a hollow comfort.

“Yes, well,” Sam said briskly, wiping his hand across his face. “That’s no matter right now, is it? Not when the dead are walking.” His gaze shifted, and his eyes went wide. “Ser Jorah!”

Jorah stepped up to be even with Daenerys’s shoulder, a faint smile gracing his face. “Sam. As you can see, I made it back safely.” He looked to Daenerys. “Your Grace, Sam is the young man who found the cure for my illness.”

“Then it seems I owe you more than just my apologies,” Daenerys said. Sam was blushing at the attention of everyone in the room. “I owe you deep and profound thanks for returning my advisor to me.”

“It was nothing, Your Grace,” Sam said. “Just wanted to help, is all.”

“When I am queen, you can may anything of me,” Daenerys said. “Anything at all. I swear it.”

“I—thank you, Your Grace,” Sam said. 

Daenerys looked back to Tyrion. He gave a short nod of approval and a little ‘go-on’ gesture. She beckoned him forward and said, “I see that some of us have prior acquaintance, but introductions are still in order. Tyrion Lannister, Hand of the Queen; Jorah Mormont, my advisor; Missandei, my handmaiden; and Grey Worm, captain of my Unsullied forces.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Sansa said. “Lord Tyrion. I hope you are well?”

“Lady Stark,” Tyrion said, bowing. “Tolerably well. Certainly more so than the last time we saw each other.”

Sansa smiled briefly. “Quite.” She indicated Davos and Brienne. “Ser Davos I believe you already know. You may know Lady Brienne of Tarth, sworn to my mother, Catelyn.”

“What of Lord Baelish?” Jon asked. 

Sansa and Arya exchanged looks. Arya looked to Jon and said, “Dead.”

Jon seemed to relax slightly. “Ah.” He glanced around. “Tonight I intend to introduce Queen Daenerys to the northern lords and ask them to accept her help in defeating the Night King. She brings with her two dragons, an army of Unsullied, and the Dothraki. I can only hope it will be enough after what we saw beyond the Wall.”

“What of Cersei?” Sansa asked. “Have you abandoned that fight?”

“She has agreed to cease hostilities until the Night King is defeated,” Tyrion said. “She will provide troops of her own to aid us.”

“And you believed her?” Sansa asked. “Lord Tyrion, surely you know your sister better than that.”

“Cersei may be insane, but she isn’t suicidal,” Tyrion said. “We showed her what’s at stake. She understands now.”

“Cersei would watch the world burn so long as she was atop a mountain,” Sansa said. “You can’t trust anything she promises.”

“It doesn’t matter what Cersei does if we’re taken by the White Walkers,” Jon said. “We have to face the immediate threat before we can begin to think of how to fight Cersei Lannister.”

Sansa sighed. “Very well. I suppose I can’t argue against that.”

“Sam,” Bran said suddenly. Sansa snapped to attention, her gaze going to her brother with something like apprehension in her eyes. “You have to tell him.”

“Now?” Sam asked in what was clearly meant to be a whisper. “In front of everyone?”

“Perhaps not.” Bran lifted his chin, a mantle of authority settling upon him. “Please give us a moment with Jon. Alone.”

Arya was the first to move, and after a moment’s hesitation Sansa followed. One by one they trickled out into the hall, until Daenerys was the last, lingering in the doorway. She was nearly out when Bran suddenly said, “No, you should stay. This concerns you too.”

“Your Grace?” Grey Worm said. Daenerys shook her head at him and stepped back inside the room, shutting the door behind her. Sam was shifting in his seat, gaze darting from Bran, to Jon, to Daenerys, and then back again. Bran was gazing at Daenerys, but somehow also not at her. He seemed to look right through her; she shivered and told herself it was the cold. 

“You look like him,” Bran said. 

“Like who?” Daenerys asked. 

“Your brother. Rhaegar.” Bran shook his head abruptly and refocused on Jon. “There’s something you need to know. Something important.”

“What is it?” Jon asked. Daenerys could hardly listen, her chest aching at the name. _Rhaegar_. Her lost brother, her perfect brother. Viserys had always spoken of him like he was a god. Stupid Dany, if she had only been born earlier, she would have been his wife—would have stopped Robert’s Rebellion before it started—would have been queen—

“Bran’s had a vision,” Sam said. “And there are records in an old maester’s diary.”

“Of what?” Jon said. 

Rhaegar, who should have been the dragonrider. Rhaegar, who stole away Lyanna Stark and started a war for her. Rhaegar, who had brought down the Targaryen dynasty as surely as Robert Baratheon or Ned Stark. 

“Of your parents,” Sam said. “Err—Bran?”

“You’re not Ned Stark’s bastard,” Bran said. 

Rhaegar—she had seen him in the House of the Undying, in a vision and she had thought, yes, he is my brother. Dead before she was ever born, and yet it was like looking at her reflection. Her features, but more angled, distorted by time. She knew what Bran was about to say; she was in the House of the Undying, watching a blue rose bloom through a crack in a wall of ice. Rhaegar’s voice rose in her memory, saying there must be three heads of the dragon, there must be three children. She looked to Jon, her heart in her throat, as he said, “I’m not?”

“Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark married in secret in Dorne,” Bran said. “You were born in the Tower of Joy as Lyanna breathed out her last and pressed you into my father’s arms. She named you Aegon and begged him to protect you.”

Jon had gone deathly pale, and he swayed on his feet. “Bran, what are you saying?”

“He’s saying your name isn’t Jon Snow,” Daenerys said. Her voice sounded distant, even to herself. “It’s Aegon Targaryen. You’re the trueborn heir to the Iron Throne.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> once upon a time on ff.net I would have apologized for the delay. I no longer feel such sorrow or guilt or remorse.

When Jon Snow was a child, he dreamed of bearing his father’s name.

Children understood more than they were given credit for, and as a child Jon had understood that he did not belong. There was the fact of his place: never at the high table, never in the family wing, never at his father or brother’s side when they welcomed guests to Winterfell. There was the fact of his unknown mother, because he always, always knew that Lady Catelyn was Robb’s mother, not his. And there was the fact of his name: Snow. 

He didn’t remember how old he was when he first learned what it meant to be a bastard. What he did remember was the strange sense of relief he felt at knowing he wasn’t alone. There were others like him, nameless sons and daughters with no place at their father’s dinner table. And then he was angry, because why should this one fact of his birth define the course of his life? Why should he be punished for his parents’ choices?

Perhaps it would have been easier if Ned Stark hadn’t been so kind. Ned never treated Jon like a bastard; he was warm and generous with his time and attention, and going from that to the wintry stares of Lady Catelyn, to the greeting of, “You’re Ned Stark’s bastard,” everywhere he went, hurt more than if he had simply grown up in obscurity. He was an object of curiosity: the one blemish to Ned Stark’s honor. 

He had never given much thought to Lyanna Stark. In the family memory, she was forever the girl at Harrenhaal, beautiful and vivacious and beloved. When he thought of her, he only ever felt a faint sense of pity for the girl who had been stolen away by a greedy prince. Beautiful, lost Lyanna. His mother. 

There seemed to be a singing in his ear, like the shriek of wind. He didn’t register his vision clouding over until Sam said his name and there was a sharp pressure on his bicep. He looked down and saw that Sam was holding him, clutching to his upper arms to keep him upright. He blinked the dark spots away, took a deep breath, and let it out; but nothing changed. 

“I’m not a Stark,” Jon said slowly. “All this time, I’ve never been a Stark.”

“I’m sorry, Jon,” Sam said. “But it seems to be true. Gilly’s got the book, she’s the one who found it in the first place. Her reading’s really getting good, you should see her.”

“Good,” Jon said, vague, and he stumbled. A moment later, he was sitting, with no recollection of how that came to be, and Sam was hovering over him. Out of the corner of his eye, Jon could see Bran watching him with that strange, removed expression he had worn since Jon had seen him again. Sansa had warned him that Bran had grown odd, but he hadn’t expected _this_ : a brother who could see into the past, so he said, and rip Jon’s world apart. 

To his left, Daenerys was standing very still, her face turned away from his. Her hands were clasped in front of her, and if it were not for the slight trembled of the locks that framed her face, she would have seemed like a statue. He started to say her name, then thought of her beneath him, her fingers digging into his arms, and said instead, “Your Grace.”

She was silent for long enough that he thought she had nothing to say. Then she said, “I always thought I was the last of my line.” Daenerys smoothed her hands down her dress, the rustle of fabric the only sound in the room aside from the crackle of flames. “The last of the Targaryens, the true ruler of the Seven Kingdoms—all this time, it’s been you.” She turned at last, but she had become the queen again, remote as the first time they met across the throne room at Dragonstone. “Who else knows?”

“Just us, Your Grace,” Sam said. “I haven’t even told Gilly yet.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Jon said. “You’re the one who deserves to rule, not me.”

“Of course it matters,” Daenerys said sharply. “What do you think will happen when this news spreads? And it will. Secrets of this magnitude do not last forever. Cersei and her brother could tell you that.”

“Then what?” Jon said. “I don’t wish to be king. They cannot make me.”

“But you will be used against me, that we can be sure of.” Daenerys’s mouth twisted into an unpleasant smile. “The trueborn son of Rhaegar Targaryen, raised by the beloved Ned Stark. Why, it couldn’t be more perfect.”

At the mention of Ned, Jon remembered Manderly standing in the hall at Winterfell and pledging his allegiance to him; not for his own sake, but for his father’s—no, not his father’s. Ned’s. And for Robb’s. The White Wolf, he’d said, only Jon wasn’t a wolf, it seemed, and the northern lords had placed their trust and faith in a lie. A lie Ned Stark had told them so many years ago.

“Bran,” Jon said, turning to look at his brother. “What do you see?”

Bran gazed at Jon—past him, really—and said, “You know nothing, Jon Snow. You think you understand now, but you can’t.” Jon shuddered at Ygritte’s words coming from his brother’s mouth, his arms aching as though he held her dying body once more. “The consequences of this truth are more than you can dream, even now.” Bran’s gaze flicked to Daenerys, then back. “The path that is chosen will guide this land for generations to come.”

“That doesn’t mean anything to me, Bran,” Jon said wearily. He felt very old all of a sudden, worn down to his bones. “Tell me how you know this is true and not just the mad ramblings of an elderly maester.”

“I can tell you,” Bran said, “but will you believe me?” 

“I don’t know,” Jon said. “I don’t know what to believe.”

Bran sat in silence for a moment, his fingers moving restlessly in the furs spread over his lap. “They first met at Harrenhaal,” he said finally. “He had a wife and children, but when he saw her he forgot all of that, because she was fierce and beautiful and she was laughing. At him. People didn’t laugh at him. He knew he shouldn’t give her the crown, and he couldn’t not, because in his heart she was the only queen. And she loved him, too; not then, but later, after she found him to ask _why her_? They fell in love, and sometimes there’s nothing worse than that.”

Daenerys jerked involuntarily, as if being tugged by a string, and Bran’s strange, otherworldly stare turned to her. “Rhaegar looked forward to your birth. He liked being a brother, even if Viserys was petulant and sometimes cruel—too much like your father—and he wanted to meet you so badly. The dragon must have three heads, he said.”

“Stop,” Daenerys said, voice cracking harshly. Her hands were clenching into fists at her sides. “Stop this now.” She turned to Sam, posture rigid. “Bring that book here. And send Lord Tyrion back in.”

“Your Grace, we don’t have to do this,” Jon said. “There’s no need—”

“I will not have everything I’ve worked for fall apart because of your insistence on believing the best of people,” Daenerys said coldly. “We need to decide what we will do, or else my enemies will decide for us.”

Jon wished he could disagree, but he saw the danger as clearly as she did. It might be a secret now, but secrets never lasted when more than one person knew the truth. That must have been why Ned never breathed a word of Jon’s parentage—he would have known that even the hint of it in the wrong person’s ear could spell Jon’s death, or worse. 

“Can my si—can Arya and Sansa join us as well?” Jon asked. “They ought to know.”

“Yes. And Ser Davos,” Daenerys said. She gestured to Sam. “Bring them in. And then bar the door.”

Sam set off at a scurry, leaving Jon and Daenerys watching each other, tense uncertainty hovering between them. Jon was avoiding the word in his mind, the one that now defined what she was to him, but he could feel it there in the back of his mouth, threatening to tumble out. She was his father’s sister, and four days ago he had made love to her aboard a ship making its way to White Harbor, her soft sighs blurring with the waves that brought them to shore. 

“Daenerys,” he said, and she said, “Don’t,” so harshly that he fell back a step, only realizing then that he had been rising from his seat as if to go to her. He would have to retrain himself not to do that.

And all the while Bran watched them with that ageless stare and inscrutable expression. 

When Sam returned, he was bearing a large tome in his arms. In his wake were Arya, Sansa, and the two advisors. Sansa’s brow was furrowed, mouth pressed in an unhappy moue, while Arya’s gazed darted around the room, taking in details—looking for danger. Sam sat down across from Jon at the table and let the book fall with a heavy thud before opening it up and beginning to flick through the pages.

“What’s going on?” Sansa asked, eyes flicking from Jon to Bran. “Is something the matter?”

Jon barked out a laugh. “You might say that.” He took in the assembled group and said, “Perhaps you should sit.”

Bran spoke first. He told them of his visions, of what he had seen in the Tower of Joy: Lyanna, breathing her last as she pressed a newborn into her brother’s arms and whispered her child’s name into his ear; Ned, taking the child and agreeing to raise him as his own. He told them of Rhaegar and Lyanna wed quietly in Dorne, alone, ignorant of the chaos they had left in their wake. He spoke again of Harrenhaal and of Rhaegar seeking out the Knight of the Laughing Tree and finding Lyanna in the woods. Of them falling in love, foolishly. Innocently. Disastrously. 

Then Sam read from the maester’s diary the words that sealed Jon’s fate: Rhaegar and Elia, annulled; Rhaegar and Lyanna, wed; Lyanna with child. 

There was silence for what felt like an eternity after Sam had finished reading. At last Tyrion said, “Well, as hard evidence goes, it isn’t much. But then your father—Lord Stark—and Jon Arryn didn’t need much more than a few of Robert’s bastards to show that Joffrey wasn’t a Baratheon, and that, in a just world, would have meant he never ruled.” 

“You think we shouldn’t concern ourselves?” Daenerys asked.

“That isn’t what I said.” Tyrion drummed his fingers on the table, face going pensive. “You were right to tell us now. This isn’t something we possibly could have foreseen, but it something we can handle. Provided Prince Aegon doesn’t wish to press his claim.”

“His name is Jon,” Arya said coolly. 

Tyrion waved his hand. “Whatever he chooses to go by, he’s the legitimate son of the last true heir to the throne, which makes his claim superior to my queen’s. If he wanted to rule, I have no doubt he could find the support to take the throne from Her Grace.”

“Lord Tyrion is right,” Sansa said. "The son of Lyanna Stark, the beloved woman the Seven Kingdoms went to war for? A son who can legitimately lay claim to the Iron Throne? The lords of the Seven Kingdom might choose to rally for him over a Targaryen queen raised in a foreign land.”

“What are you implying?” Daenerys demanded.

“I don’t believe she is implying anything, Your Grace,” Tyrion said. He and Sansa exchanged a long, speaking look. Jon wanted to snarl at Tyrion to not look at her, to demand he never speak to her. But as Sansa nodded back at Tyrion, something wordless passing between them, and Jon reminded himself that they had been married for months, trapped together in King’s Landing where they had to bite their tongues to survive. “Only that if Lord Snow does not wish to claim the throne, we need a plan so he cannot be used as a figurehead for those who wish to undermine you.” 

“I _don’t_ want the throne,” Jon said. “I’m no king. It’s one thing to be King in the North, when all that means in truth is I serve as head of the Stark family and the Warden of the North. But I’ve never wanted to rule the Seven Kingdoms.”

“And what of the north, Your Grace?” Davos asked. “What shall we tell the northern lords?”

What to tell the northern lords indeed. “It was Ned Stark’s name that gave me currency with them,” he said. “But I’m no less a Stark than I was before. Stark blood flows through my veins, just as it always has, and I was raised by Ned Stark. I lay no claim to Winterfell, but ask only for their aid in turning back the night.”

“A pretty speech,” Tyrion said. “But will that be enough?”

“They call Sansa the Lady of Winterfell already,” Jon said. “There is no question of my taking it from her now; they don’t need me to be their leader. They may have named me King in the North, but I only ever meant to lead them in war.”

“Except _you_ have been serving as king,” Sansa said. “The alliance with Queen Daenerys was made under the assumption that you were Ned Stark’s son and King in the North. If you no longer hold that position, who then is the alliance with? Who has bent the knee?”

“That’s just politics!” Jon said. 

“And this is a political question,” Tyrion said. “Our agreement with Cersei was also made under the assumption that you are the leader of the north. Who is to say that the northern Lords will still want to hold by your decisions when they know of your birth?”

Jon’s head ached. “One moment, you say that it’s more likely that I will be followed because of my birth. The next you say it’s possible our allies will abandon us if they know of it. What do you wish me to do? They can’t both be true.”

“We are presenting the possible outcomes,” Tyrion said. “It would be better if we had a solution to all these problems in place _before_ we announced your true name, if only so we don’t have to revisit these arguments with a hall full of angry Northern lords.”

“And what sort of solution do you have in mind?”

“None as of yet,” Tyrion said. “I suggest we all take some time to think this over and speak again this evening.” He stood up and went to murmur in Daenerys’s ear. Jon watched them, watched the way Daenerys’s hand flexed on the table in response to Tyrion’s words. He startled when Davos touched his shoulder and whispered that they ought to give them time, but obediently rose and followed Davos from the room. He looked back over his shoulder just before the door closed; Tyrion was no longer at Daenerys’s side. She had not moved, still staring straight ahead, her fingers digging into the wood. 

*

Jon’s room was as he’d left it; the only sign that anyone had been in there since he’d left for Dragonstone was the absence of dust. Even Ghost seemed to have stayed still, curled up at the foot of the bed as before. A lump rose in Jon’s throat at the sight and he went down to his knees as Ghost came running, whimpering softly as he pressed his cold nose against Jon’s cheek. 

“Yes, I know,” Jon said. “I’ve been gone a long time. I’m sorry.” He scratched Ghost beneath the chin, behind the ears, and then buried his face in the soft white fur. “Have Sansa and Arya been taking good care of you? I bet they have.” 

He straightened, turning slowly in place as he inhaled deep, letting his eyes drift close. After they had retaken Winterfell, he had come to his room and stood in the doorframe for a long, long time. For so many years, this room had been the one space that was his, the only place in Winterfell where he could retreat and just be. It seemed smaller now, but at the first breath of pine, the faint scent of lemon and damp stone, he was safe, and he was home. 

Jon took off his cloak and laid it upon the bed before sitting down on the floor with Ghost. His head still ached, the throbbing spreading from between his brows to the back of his head, and he longed to get back on Daenerys’s boat, sail for Dragonstone or Essos or—anywhere. Anywhere else. 

For so long he had wanted to know his mother’s name. Wanted to know that Ned had loved her, that Jon had been wanted. He had been so sure that knowing would ease something inside him. It was the not knowing, he thought, that left him so untethered. In the Night’s Watch, that desire had faded to be replaced with the brotherhood he had found there, and the fulfillment he had found in his friendships with Tormund, in his love for Ygritte, in mentoring the new recruits. And then they had stabbed him and left him for dead. 

So back to Winterfell he went, steady at Sansa’s side, knowing that his place was with her, to protect her, and then to lead the men he could against the Night King. That was his place, holding the northern line steady. His place was at Daenerys’s side—not as her consort, but her friend, perhaps. But all that was built on a lie. Where did that leave him now? With known parents, but no home. 

There was a light knock at the door. Jon looked up and saw Arya standing just inside the doorway. He gently pushed Ghost from his lap and stood, not sure whether she was there to welcome him or—something else. Her hands were tucked behind her back as she looked at Jon, gaze sweeping from his head to his feet and back again. Needle was at her hip, and there was something about the way she held herself: coiled, he thought. Ready to leap. 

“You’ve grown,” he said.

“You haven’t,” she replied. They looked at each other from across the room, the years since they’d last spoken heavy between them—and then they were in each other’s arms. She was bigger in his arms, too, and he could feel the strength of her. No longer a little girl.

“Gods,” Arya said when they parted at last. She still held onto his forearms, as though afraid to let go. “I’ve missed you.”

“I missed you too,” Jon said. “I thought about you so often. I thought you were _dead_.”

“Not for lack of people trying,” Arya said, mouth quirking into a smirk. “It turns out I’m hard to kill. Perhaps that runs in the family?” She arched her eyebrows and gave a nod toward his chest. 

“Sansa told you, then,” Jon said. “About what happened at the Wall?”

“We’re trying something new,” Arya said. 

“Which is?”

“Talking.” Arya grinned suddenly and released Jon’s arms, stepping back lightly. “Turns out she isn’t as much of an annoying wet blanket as I always thought. She’s actually quite clever.” 

“Yes,” Jon said. “Much cleverer than she lets on.”

“When I came back and found her running the place, I thought it was a huge mistake,” Arya said. “But—she’s actually doing rather well. If you can’t be the King in the North, I suppose she’d be all right as Queen.”

Jon laughed at that, and then found he couldn’t _stop_ laughing. He only laughed harder when Arya gave him a concerned look, and he had to sit on the edge of his bed to steady himself as his laughter turned into wrenching gasps. Arya was at his side in an instant, perching beside him as the weight of the last few days—few months, in truth—came down upon him. He pressed the heels of his palm to his burning eyes and forced himself to slow his breaths until he could lower his hands away without them shaking. Arya said nothing, but he could feel the warmth of her at his side, and just that small, familiar bit of comfort was enough to bring him back. He dropped his hands and stared at them blindly. 

“Gods,” he said. “Arya, what am I going to do?”

“Stop feeling sorry for yourself, for one,” Arya said. “You just found out that you’re heir to the Seven Kingdoms, Jon, not that you’re secretly a—a—I don’t know, a Lannister.” 

Jon smiled at that. “Oh, gods, can you imagine?”

“I imagine you’d be much blonder,” Arya said. “Can’t say that I think it would be particularly attractive.”

“No, not really.” Jon nudged her shoulder with his, waited until she met his eyes. “Thank you.”

“You’re still my brother,” Arya said. “No matter what. But did you mean it when you said you aren’t going to press your claim to the throne?”

“Of course,” Jon said. “When have you ever known me to want to be king?”

“You took to being King in the North well enough,” Arya said. “You’re more of a leader than you give yourself credit for, Lord Commander.”

“I’m not Lord Commander anymore, and I never asked them to make me king,” Jon said. “Daenerys was born to rule. She has fought to be queen. Let her take the Iron Throne; I want no part of it.”

Arya fixed him with a fierce, probing look unnervingly like her father’s. “Tell me the truth. Will she make a good queen?”

Jon had asked himself this since the day he arrived at Dragonstone, and in truth, he still could not say for certain. There was a streak of dark fury in her, a recklessness that could be dangerous, and a stubborn pride that sometimes fought against her better judgment. But then he would remember the biting chill of the north, feeling death coming upon them and knowing he would die beyond the Wall, as he’d always thought he would. Beyond the Wall, and beyond all hope of survival, all in one desperate attempt to save his home. 

And then: the sound of dragon wings on the air. 

No one had forced her to come. No one had asked her to bring all three of her dragons—her children—to their aid. Yet she had done so, because she had decided to gamble on the possibility of making peace with the Lannisters, and she would not stand safely behind the battlements to watch her people die. And there was the loyalty she inspired, the way Missandei worshipped her and the Unsullied bowed to her with reverence. She had that quality necessary to rule, and to do so well: love for her people. 

“I believe so,” Jon said. “There is always the chance—I suppose it cannot be avoided—that she may turn the way of her father, or any of the mad Targaryens of the past. But I believe that she truly wants to return Westeros to peace, and that when she has the throne she will try to serve the people.”

“I suppose it is encouraging that she did not simply raze King’s Landing to the ground as soon as she arrived,” Arya said dryly. “Cersei would be content ruling over a kingdom of ash so long as she sat on the throne.”

Jon sighed and nodded. “Yes. Tyrion seems to believe Cersei will abide by her agreement to cease hostilities, but I do wonder.”

“She isn’t one to give up an advantage,” Arya said. “And if she catches wind of all this—” She gestured at him, as if to encompass the entirety of the last few hours. “Well. She and Littlefinger had much in common, I think.”

“What do you mean by that?” 

“Think of what the Lannisters did at The Twins,” Arya said. “They knew Robb had caused a split in our alliance with the Freys, so they took advantage of it. And in the gap left behind, they aided the Boltons and sowed more disorder in the north. They look for weaknesses to exploit. Littlefinger was much the same, though he underestimated our sister. And me.” Her mouth twitched into a cold smile. “He truly thought he was the cleverest man alive.”

“What happened?” Jon asked. “Before I left, he was like Sansa’s shadow.”

“I can imagine.” Arya cut her gaze to him, eyes narrowed. “Are you sure you want to hear? It isn’t a pleasant story.”

“Tell me,” Jon said.

*

When Arya left his room some time later, Jon was still taut with fury at all she had told him. Sansa had told him most of the truth, but now he saw just how much she had kept hidden from him when it came to Lord Petyr Baelish. He had to get up to pace about, hands clenching into fists at the image of Baelish with Sansa, a girl he’d sold to a monster for his own gain, extending his hand and asking her to give herself to him. A girl young enough to be his daughter, who he had put through so much pain already—and that wasn’t even touching what he’d tried to do to Bran. 

Ghost whined and pawed plaintively at the floor until Jon stopped pacing. He stooped to give Ghost a scratch and then straightened, hand on the hilt of his sword. He curled his fingers around the pommel, tightening until the metal was digging into his skin. A deep breath in, a stamp of his feet, and he was out the door, heading for the training yard where he might be able to expel some of the anger burning inside him.

The yard was not as full as it was in the mornings when training was in earnest, but there were a fair number of men practicing their skill with bow and blade. Jon took up a practice sword, swung to test its weight, and moved to a clear space where he might go through one of his training exercises. He breathed in deeply, pushing aside all the thoughts in his head, and raised the sword. 

He came to a stop some time later, breathing heavily and damp with perspiration, and discovered that those in the yard had stopped to watch him. One young man with sandy hair actually began to clap in appreciation before being elbowed in the side by his older companion. Jon dropped his sword arm to his side and nodded with what he hoped was a friendly smile. He turned to return the sword to its place and saw Sansa standing at the archway into the yard, gaze trained upon him. 

Her hair was bright against the dull grey stone. Strands had come loose in the wind that came whistling through the walls, and she lifted one hand absently to push them behind her ear. Jon’s chest was suddenly tight, as it had been at Castle Black when he’d walked out and seen her standing there. He had thought he was dreaming, or that perhaps he truly was dead. The sharp pang of disbelief, of amazement—and he had drawn closer, convinced every step of the way that she would vanish before his eyes, but no, she was real, she was solid, and she was there. 

“Jon?” Sansa said. He realized he was staring and quickly looked away to busy himself with setting his clothes in order. When he had regained his composure, he made his way over to her, conscious that they were being watched by everyone present. Her eyes flicked over his shoulder, then back to him, and she smiled wryly. 

“They’ve missed you,” she said. “You’re practically a god in their eyes.”

“I’m no god,” he said. 

“I know that.” Sansa turned, hair and cloak rustling together, and started back toward the keep. “Come with me. There are some matters that could use your attention.”

Jon didn’t know if Sansa did it intentionally, but by drawing him into the mundane necessities of maintaining Winterfell, she distracted him from his unfocused anger. There were a thousand things to discuss and settle—where to allocate fighters, how to reserve rations, which areas of the castle should be given to which allies. Sansa dominated most of the conversation, providing insight on what had happened while he was away and letting him know what she had been doing. By the time they had circled back to the great hall, he had calmed enough that he felt nothing more than an understandable disquiet upon entering and seeing where Petyr Baelish had died. 

Sansa went ahead of him toward the high table, trailing her fingers along the wood. “The northern lords expect you to speak to them tonight,” she said without looking back. “I’ve already heard from several of them. They want to know what you’ve agreed upon with the Dragon Queen.” 

“I imagine they do,” Jon said. “I don’t suppose you have any suggestions for what I ought to say?”

“I don’t know what you’ve agreed,” Sansa said. “And besides, we can hardly make that decision until—well.” She turned, half-smiling. “There are a few things to discuss, isn’t there.”

“I pledged fealty,” Jon said. “She offers the dragonglass and her army in exchange for our support for her claim.”

“What if I decide we ought to support yours?” Sansa asked. 

Jon smiled, amused despite himself. “I don’t have two dragons at my command,” he said. “I think in that contest, she would win.”

“You’ve triumphed against impossible odds before.” Sansa sighed and leaned against the table. “It isn’t that I don’t trust your judgment, Jon—if you believe we can put our faith in her as our queen, then I will follow you, but I don’t want to trade one Cersei for another.”

“She is nothing like Cersei,” Jon said. “ _Nothing_.”

“I believe you believe that,” Sansa said. “You must forgive me for withholding judgment until I have known her for longer than a few hours.”

Jon could not fault her; he had held his own reservations about Daenerys. Even now he knew she had the potential to be as cruel and cold. But she had come for him when he was sure he would die in vain beyond the wall and been at his side when he woke. No one had forced her to do that; it was the kind of thing Ned Stark might have done. 

“I understand,” Jon said. “I thank you for making her welcome here regardless.”

Sansa opened her mouth to speak, but was interrupted by a polite cough from the door. They both looked and saw Missandei standing just inside the door, hands clasped before her. She bowed. “Lord Snow, Lady Stark. Please forgive me for interrupting. Lord Snow, Her Grace asks you join her and Lord Tyrion in her chambers.”

Sansa and Jon exchanged glances before Sansa gave him a small gesture of acquiescence. Jon took her hand, squeezed it briefly, then went to join Missandei, the weight of his newfound heritage crashing down upon him again. With every step, the faint sense of normalcy that Arya and Sansa had instilled in him faded away, and he knew that once he entered that room, he could never go back. 

Daenerys had been given the room that Robert Baratheon had once stayed in; Jon wondered if anyone had told her that. Missandei opened the door for him, bowed again, and closed it behind him once he stepped over the threshold. Inside, Daenerys and Tyrion were sitting by the fire, not speaking. Daenerys sat perfectly straight, hands folded on her lap, and barely acknowledged Jon aside from a short nod. Jon’s chest tightened, but he said nothing, only took the chair that Tyrion gestured to. 

“I have been thinking,” Tyrion said once Jon was settled. “This has put us all in a strange position, one not easily overcome. Rules of succession dictate that you, as the next male heir, would inherit over my queen. Not that those rules have been particularly useful in recent years. No logic says my sister should sit on the Iron Throne, and yet sit she does.” 

“What is your point?” Daenerys asked sharply.

“But this also provides an unexpected solution to the question of heirs,” Tyrion said, ignoring her. “You are no longer the last Targaryen. You have a nephew who can marry, have children of the Targaryen line, and you will have living heirs that can rule when you’re gone. As solutions go, it’s unusual, but hardly unprecedented. And, forgive me, but you will need an heir.” 

“I am aware,” Daenerys said, voice chilly. “You have said as much before.” 

Tyrion bowed slightly. “Apologies, Your Grace, but I think it best if we are as frank about the circumstances as possible. Declare Lord Snow your heir. Succession will be assured; his claim will be acknowledged without becoming an undue threat; and—” Here he paused, mouth pressing together. Jon tensed, the hair at the back of his neck rising instinctively at the quality of the pause. “This may be the sticking point, and I understand if it is. But we will need something to solidify Lord Snow’s place in the north. I suggest a marriage alliance, with formal contracts and oaths of fealty.”

“I imagine you have a candidate in mind,” Daenerys said. 

“I do.” Tyrion looked at Jon. “Lady Sansa would be an excellent choice.”

“Sansa?” Jon asked. “But she’s—” He stopped, instinctive protestations dying on his lips.

“Yes,” Tyrion said. “As your cousin, she is a suitable match. With her position as the eldest remaining child of Ned Stark and Lady of Winterfell—a role you yourself gave to her—she is the closest thing the north has to a leader without you. Unify House Stark and House Targaryen formally and we unify our forces.”

“No,” Jon said. “No, I won’t do that to her. She has been through enough.”

“Do you have a better suggestion?” Tyrion asked. “What unmarried young lady could you take as wife and truly claim an alliance with the entirety of the north? No house is as influential or as powerful in these parts. The Boltons knew that when they bargained for her hand.”

“Do not speak of the Boltons,” Jon said in a low voice. “I would not have myself compared to them.”

“No, of course not. I apologize.” Tyrion lifted his hand. “I have presented my solution. I think it best I leave you to discuss the finer details. I imagine there is much you need to talk about.” His gaze slipped from Jon to Daenerys, and Jon sensed suddenly that Tyrion knew what had passed between them. Knew, and was not saying. “I will be in my quarters if you wish to speak with me.”

Neither of them spoke until Tyrion was gone from the room. The fire crackled, spat sparks into the air, and Jon stared into the flames, seeing Sansa’s face when she read out that appalling letter from Ramsay Bolton. That is what one husband had done to her; and the one before him was now asking Jon to do the same. To force Sansa into a marriage beyond her desire or control, all for the sake of political power. 

“Daenerys,” Jon said finally. He did not look at her; did not think he could bear to. “We don’t have to do this. We can find another way.”

“How?” Daenerys asked. “Shall I embrace the ways of my forefathers and wed you instead? Lord Tyrion is right; this is the simplest solution. And you care for her. I can see it. You would be happy together, would you not?”

“It is not her that I love,” Jon said, pulse thrumming at his throat. 

Daenerys scoffed. “You hardly know me. Don’t be foolish. There is more at stake than our hearts. If you cannot hold the north alone, then you will rule it with her.”

“Is that a command?” Jon asked quietly. 

Daenerys was silent for a long time, and Jon chanced a look up at last. Her face was bathed in gold and red from the firelight, just as it had when he’d led her into the cave beneath Dragonstone. He had first started to love her then, he thought. To see the wonder in her eyes, the same that he felt. It was more than their shared sense of duty towards the people who had pledged themselves to their causes. That moment in the cave belonged to them, and to them alone. 

“Yes,” Daenerys said. “I command it.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> at the rate I'm going I'll finish this around the same time GRRM finishes the next book

When Sansa Stark was a girl, she dreamed of love. 

She dreamed innocently, the simple dreams of a fortunate girl. A prince to be her husband. A family, children. At twelve, at fourteen, she had truly believed she wanted those things. She looked to her mother and saw the power she wielded as the Lady of Winterfell, the reverence she received. She looked to her parents and saw love, and wanted that for her own. 

A truth that Sansa could never admit was this: as a girl, she had been lonely. There were other girls her age at Winterfell, but they were not the lord’s daughter as she was. There was always a slight gap of status to divide them. When Arya was young, Sansa had hoped Arya would grow to be her friend, but instead Arya was wild and untamable, unwilling to be confined to the solar. Arya had friends. The blacksmith’s boy. Bran, and Jon. She did not seem, as Sansa did, to feel the weight of their name upon her. 

Perhaps that, Sansa thought, perhaps that was why she had been stupid enough to trust people around her. To trust Joffrey, to trust Cersei and Shae and Margaery and Baelish when in her heart she always sensed a second motive. For so long—for far too long—she had let herself believe that everyone truly did mean well at heart. But life was not a song, and life was not love, and she buried her heart away where it couldn’t be found.

Sansa was still lonely; but by now loneliness was an old friend. 

The halls of Winterfell were unnervingly still and quiet in the first days after the battle with the Bolton forces. Each breath of cold wind seemed to bring with it ghosts; ghosts that belonged to more than just the Starks. If it were just that—if it were just the empty bedrooms where their siblings had once slept—perhaps Sansa would have felt less unnerved. Perhaps not. But she'd had time to mourn her family in the long days at King's Landing and the Eyrie. She hadn't spared as much thought for the smallfolk that had populated Winterfell's halls. She should have; she hated that she hadn't. 

The servants' quarters were abandoned. She was told that a fair number of the staff had refused to bend the knee to the Boltons, not wishing to serve them that had killed their king. They, naturally, had died for their loyalty. Others, more pragmatic, had stayed on and kept their heads down. Still others had willingly worked for the Boltons, for whatever reasons of their own. 

None of them could stay. The Boltons might be gone, but they had served the Lannisters and there was no telling what the smallfolk had known. Sansa trusted their people but she also did not put full faith in that trust. She, in the end, could only try to keep the circle of people around her and Jon small. 

These were the kinds of concerns Jon did not have time for. He spent much of his mornings closed in with Davos, or training in the yard with the men that continued to gather at Winterfell. In the afternoons he often settled disputes between their bannermen and their smallfolk. In the evenings he dined with Sansa.

At first they spoke only of shared memories—“Do you remember when Arya cut her own hair with Father’s knife?”—or of light, innocent matters—“Did you see the size of the fish Bridger caught?” But as the days wore on, they slowly began to speak of their five years apart, at first briefly, then in stumbling detail. 

“I thought of you,” Jon said late one night when they had drunk more wine than they ordinarily would. “I wondered what had become of you. We had news, sometimes, but it was so vague when it arrived that I was never sure if you were dead or alive. That day you walked into the courtyard at Castle Black—I half-thought perhaps I was still dead.”

“You looked it,” Sansa said, smiling. She laughed when Jon mock-scowled at her, and then stopped abruptly, startled by the sound. “Do you ever think, if you had left just a bit earlier…?”

“No,” Jon said instantly. “I can’t think of that.” He looked down at the goblet in his hands, restlessly turning it to and fro. “It makes me sick to think of you unprotected.”

“I have Lady Brienne,” Sansa said. “She’s fierce enough for an army.”

“I agree,” Jon said. “But that isn’t what I mean. You had no one to go to. All those years and you were alone.”

“I had people,” Sansa said, thinking of Shae and Margaery, of Lady Olenna. Certainly they had all had their own motivations—she didn’t doubt that—but they had been kind to her. At Jon’s curious look, she told him of their kindnesses to her. Her voice stayed remarkably even as she told him how close she came to avoiding the long winding path that led to Ramsay Bolton, even when she thought of Margaery—of beautiful, kind Margaery—dead, killed by Cersei’s malice. “I wasn’t alone,” she said finally. “Not entirely.”

“But after King’s Landing?” Jon persisted, and to that she had no answer. Jon took her hand when he saw her expression and said, “We have each other. I promise you, I won’t ever let you be alone again.”

Only he had. 

After he had declared his intention to travel south and give her Winterfell, he came to her room before bed. They sat by the fire and didn’t speak for a good long while, drinking warm mead in silence. Even something as simple as sitting in silence felt like a gift. Being able to be _still_ , and safe. She would never underestimate the importance of those moments again. 

“I wish you weren’t going,” Sansa said finally. Her voice came out hoarse, frayed around the edges. “You belong here at Winterfell.” _With me_.

“I know,” Jon said. He leaned forward, placing his elbows upon his knees as he stared into the fire. “I hate to leave you, Sansa. I don’t want to. I don’t trust some of the Lords and I certainly don’t trust Littlefinger, but what good is building an army to fight the Night King if we have no weapons?”

“Can’t someone else go?” Sansa asked. “Your friend, Tormund, perhaps?”

Jon snorted. “Can you imagine Tormund meeting a queen?” and at that Sansa couldn’t help but laugh. No, the red-haired wildling would not be a good emissary. “Besides,” Jon said, “there is bad blood between our families. I would hardly take it kindly if she sent someone to ask us for a favor instead of coming herself.”

“And what if she is as mad as her father?” Sansa asked. 

Jon’s hand went to his chest, an unconscious tic he had developed over the last few weeks since they had taken Winterfell. He was pressing at the scar over his heart; she had seen it once, when she had visited him while he was healing from the battle against the Bolton forces. She had expected it to be a livid red, but instead it was pale and faded as though it had happened years before instead of a few months. She had reached out, unthinking, but caught herself before she could touch and wake him. 

“Then,” Jon said, “we will do what we must.”

 

Daenerys Targaryen was something out of song. That was the first thing Sansa thought when she saw her ride into Winterfell in her great fur cloak and black dress, that white hair spilling across her shoulders. She could have been her brother Rhaegar, riding into Harrenhaal, or Aegon the conquerer arrived on Westeros. And she was beautiful, a beauty turned hard and sharpened into a weapon by the stern set of her mouth and brow. 

Sansa sank into a curtsy before her, as elegantly as she knew how, to prove to herself that she still knew how to stand before a queen, and briefly their eyes met, for just a moment, and Sansa shifted her gaze instead to her brother. 

He was watching Daenerys, a slight smile at his lips. Sansa’s heart stuttered, flipped over. So, she thought. Not mad after all. Or if she were, then it was a mad Jon could live with. 

It was only after Bran had told his story—how long had he been holding that secret?—that Sansa realized the depth of the trouble they were in. She had not mistaken that look, she knew it. 

But there was no decision made before dinner, at least none she was privy to. Jon and Daenerys arrived separately, and their expressions were impossible to read. Daenerys’s face was set, still as stone, and Jon’s face had not changed from the frown he had been wearing since he had left the conversation with Bran. Jon took his seat at the high table without looking to Daenerys, so Sansa took it upon herself to greet her and Lord Tyrion. 

“Your Grace,” Sansa said once she straightened from her small curtsy. “I invite you to join us at the high table. The seat at my left is open to you. Lord Tyrion, the seat beside that, perhaps?” Strictly speaking, Daenerys ought to take the seat to Jon’s right, but Sansa thought it would be better to avoid that. 

The hall was crowded, more crowded than it had been in weeks. Mostly people took their meals as they could, and there was rarely occasion for a formal meal. But they had all come to see the Dragon Queen, to hear Jon’s words. Sansa looked out over the collected lords and vassals, seeing the Forrester girl who had come to pledge their family’s loyalty, the Manderly men, small Lady Lyanna Mormont. Their pale, stern faces were turned towards the high table, waiting for Jon to speak. 

But Jon showed no signs of wanting to speak. Sansa looked to him for something, anything, but he was looking only at his hands, so instead of sitting, Sansa rapped her knuckles on the table. The assembled crowd, already quiet, fell completely silent. She glanced to her right, saw Jon still not looking up, saw Arya and Bran on his other side, waiting too. 

“Lords and ladies of the orth,” Sansa said into the hungry silence. “We are graced by the presence of Daenerys Targaryen, first of her name and claimant to the Iron Throne. In return for support for her claim, she has pledged her forces to us to fight the oncoming night.”

The hall filled with uneasy murmurs, the rustling of cloaks as the gathered lords exchanged dubious glances, many casting doubtful looks towards Daenerys. Sansa raised her hands and waited for them to fall silent again before continuing. 

“I am aware that many of you suffered under Targaryen rule, as did my own family. But Her Grace has proven herself willing to risk herself and her forces in support of our cause. We will not pledge your loyalty on your behalf; but we ask that you listen to her and give her consideration.” Sansa chanced a look at Jon, searching his expression for any sign that she had said something in error, but he only gave her a small nod, urging her to continue. “In the coming days we will hold a council for all lords who wish to attend to discuss the terms of this alliance. Until then, we ask you make Her Grace and her people feel welcome. Winter is here, and we must be ready for it.”

She sat then, and for a moment the hall remained silent. Then Lord Manderly gave a terse nod and lifted his cup in salute to Sansa, and slowly conversation returned, though muted from the usual babble. Sansa breathed in slowly, hands unclenching in her lap, and did not look at Jon. 

Tyrion leaned past Daenerys, catching her attention with a raised eyebrow. “Well said,” he told her. “Though I don’t recall any discussion of a council.”

“The northern lords will follow, but only if they feel they are given the choice,” Sansa said. “They’ve been pushed into enough hard corners by their loyalties as it is. And given what we have to tell them—” Her gaze slipped to Jon. “I think it’s best, is all.”

“And formalized alliances are much harder on the conscience to break,” Tyrion said. “Not impossible, but if they promise to your face they may feel bound by honor.”

“They will,” Sansa said. “The north has a long memory, but many of them are ashamed of their actions when the Boltons overran Winterfell.” She looked over to Daenerys. “Your Grace, you will need to speak with them yourself. I don’t know how you prefer to act, but the lords will appreciate it if you give them the opportunity to speak to you personally, not just in a crowd. If you can win their loyalty—as I said, the north has a long memory. If you convince them, they will stay at your side even when spring has come again.”

“The question is how to convince them,” Tyrion said. “They hardly know my queen, and they know me as the dwarf son of the Lannisters. For all they know we’re swindling you to take the north to fortify our position against Cersei.”

“I imagine you have plenty of ideas for convincing them,” Sansa said dryly. “You always have plenty of ideas.”

Daenerys lifted her cup to her lips, not quite quickly enough to hide her smile. “She knows you well, my Hand.”

“My dear former lady wife does not, I think, have the highest opinion of me,” Tyrion said. 

“Your former lady wife is right here,” Sansa said, “and no, I do not, though at times you do come close to proving me wrong. Now is not one of those times.”

From Jon’s far side, Arya said, “We like clever, but there’s such a thing as too clever.” Her eyes, when Sansa met her gaze, were flinty and cold. “I advise you not to be too clever.”

Tyrion’s eyebrows had almost disappeared into his hairline when Sansa glanced at him. “Well,” he said after a moment. “Things have changed around these parts. You Starks have grown some steel spine. Well done.”

“Lord Tyrion,” Daenerys said quietly, casting him a look that made him sit back in his seat. She sipped at her wine, then set it down again. “Thank you for your words, Lady Stark. I am sorry that you are being put in such an awkward position. I hope soon we will remedy it.”

She was difficult to read. By the end of her time at King’s Landing, Sansa had learned to read every minute expression in Cersei’s face, to hear the tempo of her mood in her words. Daenerys was perhaps not as polished, not in the Westerosi way, but she had an eerie serenity to her. Was it confidence, or madness, or just a brave front? Sansa could not tell, not for certain. 

“I hope so as well,” Sansa said. “Come, will you tell me about Essos? I have never been away from Westeros. Is it so very different from here?”

She kept up a light, pleasant conversation, calling upon the endless months of idle chatter that had filled her days at court. Occasionally they were interrupted by someone coming to speak with Sansa about matters that required her attention. A man from House Glover came to report on the progress being made on the repairs to their castle. The Forrester girl she had known at court came to speak with her about the progress they were making with ironwood. She was subdued, and Sansa recalled with a jolt that the girl had served Margaery, before. Perhaps she would offer her a place once things had settled. 

Sansa could sense the unrest among those present, though no one was particularly obvious about their unhappiness. She had expected Lord Manderly to be the biggest point of contention, but perhaps he had truly meant it when he said he pledged his loyalty to the Starks, no matter what. They would see that put to the test, she supposed, in the coming days. Her gaze shifted restlessly around the hall, catching on a strained smile, on a hand straying toward the hilt of a sword, on a quick furtive glance toward Daenerys who was smiling and talking politely with Davos. 

Despite herself, she wondered what Littlefinger would say if he were here. No doubt he would be pouring poison into her ear about Jon’s ambitions to be king; but she would have been—not glad, but interested to hear his thoughts on Daenerys. What he would make of her, and what he would try to tell Sansa about her. His lies could be as revealing as his truths. 

Later, she would blame her drifting thoughts for not seeing the man approaching the high table until he was already before them, calling out, “Daenerys Targaryen! I would speak with you.”

“Speak, then,” Daenerys said, turning from her conversation with Tyrion. She was smiling pleasantly, nearly shining with benevolence. “I am here to listen.”

“Are we to believe that’s all? Or will you take our land from us and burn our people to ash as your father did?” 

Daenerys’s expression went from pleasant to stormy in an instant, her mouth opening to speak as her chin went up in the defiant angle Sansa had already learned to recognize, but the man spoke over her, voice rising. “The north remembers, _Your Grace_. How dare you sit where she sat, with the blood on your hands? It’s a disgrace. You may put on a pretty show, but madness and cruelty run in your blood, and you will meet the same fate as your brother.” He spat on the floor and stood back, trembling with rage and pride. 

Sansa held up her hands to stop her, to stop Jon who she could see had half-risen from his seat with indignation, and gave them both quick look. Daenerys hesitated, then gave a short nod, sitting back in her chair. Jon sank down more slowly; his hand was at his sword.

She looked the man over carefully. She did not know his name, though his face was familiar; she must have seen him around Winterfell. He was perhaps ten years older than Jon, stocky, and wore the sigil of House Royce—vassals of House Arryn. Kyle Royce, she recalled, had been with her uncle when he had called for Lyanna’s return. Had also been arrested by Aerys and burned alive for speaking against Rhaegar. This man would have been a child at a time; he would, indeed, remember. 

“Ser Royce,” she said coolly. He was still glaring at Daenerys, so Sansa rapped her knuckles on the table to draw his attention. “Ser Royce.” 

At last he looked at her, and something in her expression made him pale. “My lady, I—”

“Daenerys Targaryen and her people are guests of the Starks,” Sansa said. “I think you will agree that we, more than anyone, have plenty of reason to distrust her?” When the man nodded reluctantly, Sansa continued. “And yet we have welcomed her into our home, because we recognize that she is not her father. She wasn’t even born when your brother was killed.” She was guessing at that, but from the way the man dropped his gaze she knew she’d been right. “These are extraordinary times, Ser Royce. Her Grace has proven herself willing and able to help our cause even at risk of her own life; she flew beyond the wall herself to rescue Lord Snow. Ser Davos can vouch for that. I think, in that light, we can set the past to rest, wouldn’t you agree?”

Ser Royce’s gaze slid away from Sansa, down to the floor. “Yes, my lady.”

“If you have concerns over the alliance, we of course welcome House Royce to speak when we convene the council,” Sansa said. “But while Her Grace is a guest of Winterfell, you will treat her with the same respect you would your own sovereign lady. Is that understood?” He stood silent, still staring at the floor. “Is that understood?” she repeated, letting the winter creep into her voice.

“Yes, my lady.” Ser Royce looked nervously to Daenerys and bobbed his head, not quite respectfully. Sansa considered pressing for an apology, but decided to let it go for the time being. She waited until Daenerys gave a curt nod in return, and then gestured for Ser Royce to be on his way. Heart racing, she reached for her cup and took a heavy swallow of wine to hide her face, but she hardly tasted it. 

No one spoke, the easy conversation they’d found now impossible in the face of what they were truly attempting to overcome with this alliance. For a moment, a sharp flare of anger sparked in Sansa’s chest at Jon’s blithe belief that he could bring a Targaryen queen to the north and expect them to love her as he did; then she remembered that Jon was a Targaryen now, too. 

“I would not have handled that half so well,” Daenerys said finally. “Thank you, Lady Stark. I appreciate your defense when we hardly know each other.”

“Jon trusts you,” Sansa said. “I trust Jon.” Sansa turned to look Daenerys directly in the eye, taking in the queen’s face. This close, it was possible to see faint flaws—the hint of lines at the corners of her eyes, a slight unevenness in her brow, but all it did was make the peerless queen human. Touchable, not impossible. “I hope you will prove yourself worthy of that trust.”

“I hope so as well,” Daenerys said. She pursed her lips, frowned slightly, and seemed about to say something else before she looked away and lifted her wine to her mouth, leaving a faint trace of shining red on her lower lip. 

 

Sansa retreated to her quarters once supper had finished. She dismissed the girl serving as her maid for the time being and sat alone before the fire, combing out her hair as she stared into the flames. The heat against her face was almost too much, her skin feeling stretched and raw from its touch. She didn’t move away, though, not even when her hair had been combed out and she was left kneeling on the furs before the fire. It wasn’t until her door opened, almost silently, that she stirred. 

“Come, sit by the fire,” she said without looking round. A moment later Arya settled beside her, sitting cross-legged with her hands braced on the ground. “So.”

“So,” Arya agreed. 

“She’s very beautiful,” Sansa observed. “Though not very tall.”

“I’m not very tall,” Arya said, “and that doesn’t do me much harm.”

“No,” Sansa said. “I suppose it doesn’t.”

“Besides, she has dragons,” Arya said. “You could be any height you pleased with dragons at your beck and call.”

“Did you see them?”

“Yes.” Arya pulled her knees up and wrapped her arms around them. “Not up close. But I went out to where her people are camped and I saw them flying. I suppose we couldn’t expect her to bring them in like they were pets.”

“No more than our direwolves,” Sansa said. “For all they could be tame at times.”

Arya nodded, then turned her cheek to rest against her knee. “I’m sorry about Lady,” she said. “It wasn’t fair what they did.”

“It’s all right,” Sansa said. “It was a long time ago.”

“Maybe, but—if you’d had her with you all this time, maybe things would have been different. She could have kept you safe.”

“We could say that about a lot of things,” Sansa said. “For now, let’s focus on what is happening now rather than what might have been.”

Arya smiled. “I like you much better this way.”

“What way?”

“Angry,” Arya said. “And not with me.” Her smile turned into a grin as Sansa pushed at her shoulder. “I noticed we said nothing today about Jon. How long do you suppose we should wait?”

“Until they know how we will announce it. In the meantime, do you suppose you can make your way among the men? Use your faces to sow a bit more trust of the alliance?”

“Not what they were made for,” Arya said, “but I suppose it’s in service of a greater cause. Yes, I can do that. Tell me what I ought to say and I’ll see if I can encourage people to look at the Targaryen queen with less dislike, though it would be simpler to slit her throat and take her face myself.”

“And have her dragons devour you, yes, excellent plan,” Sansa said dryly. “We know nothing of her powers or how she commands them. And as skilled as I’m sure you are, you do realize you’d have to be queen if you did that, yes?”

“Hmm. You do have a point. But remember that we always have that option, if we need it.”

“I won’t forget,” Sansa said. Arya nodded, her dark eyes catching the firelight, and fear stirred for a moment in Sansa’s belly. Then Arya straightened, and she was Sansa’s sister again. Arya rose to her feet, let her hand rest briefly on Sansa’s shoulder, and then she was gone, the door closing behind her with a barely audible click. Sansa went back to staring into the fire, her fingers slipping through her hair as she combed through it, again and again.

 

Sansa slept uneasily, though she did not remember her dreams except in flashes. She took breakfast in her room with the reports and letters that had arrived via raven, and spent the rest of the morning seeing to the arrangements for Daenerys’s people. She saw little of Jon or the queen, and only spoke to Tyrion in passing when asking for troop numbers, but she sensed they had reached a decision of some kind. Tyrion did not seem as restless as she would think if they were still arguing it over, and Daenerys—well, Sansa did not know her as well as the other two, but she recognized the carefully distant and pleasant way Daenerys carried herself. She had gazed at It in the mirror for years now. 

But it wasn’t until early afternoon that any of them came to speak with her in private, and to her surprise it was neither Jon nor Tyrion who came to the room where those who could not fight sat and made cloaks and gloves for the winter. Daenerys arrived at the door alone, no sign of her handmaiden, and waited until the room’s pleasant babble quieted. Sansa, drawn away from her stitching by the sudden silence, looked up to see her standing in the doorway, the afternoon light streaming in behind her, haloing her silver hair. 

“Lady Stark,” Daenerys said. “May I speak with you?”

“Of course.” Sansa rose to her feet and crossed the room to her side, feeling awkward and gangly beside the small, delicate queen. “Shall we take a walk?”

“Yes,” Daenerys said, and she waited until Sansa had stepped outside to add, “This is a conversation best had in private, I think. Will you come to my rooms?” 

“Of course,” Sansa said, wondering what on earth would have induced the queen to come in person rather than send her handmaid. Perhaps Daenerys was not familiar with the way court politics worked? But no, she couldn’t be completely ignorant of what it meant. She had paid Sansa a compliment by coming to her, had shown a level of deference out of step with her reputation of the dragon queen. 

Sansa found that she was very curious to hear what Daenerys had to say. 

Though she had only been in residence for a day, Daenerys’s rooms looked as though she lived there. There was a Targaryen pennant on the wall and new sheets upon the bed, and when Daenerys gestured Sansa towards the small table, she saw a set of wine glasses that she didn’t recognize. They were elegant, made of delicate glass with silver scrolled around the rim. Sansa sat in one of the two chairs set out for them and accepted a small bit of wine before waving Daenerys off. 

“It’s a wine from Essos,” Daenerys said, taking the seat across from Sansa. “More like the Dornish wines than what you grow here.”

“Only in the south,” Sansa said. She took a sip, letting the light flavor linger for a moment before she swallowed and said, “What did you wish to discuss, Your Grace?”

“Yes, I suppose we ought to get to business,” Daenerys said. “Though I confess it is pleasant to be in the company of a woman my age, and one who is not sworn to serve me. I have had little opportunity in the past to do so.”

“That is mostly what I have had opportunity to do,” Sansa said wryly, “though many of them were fools.”

“That’s right, you spent a great deal of time in King’s Landing,” Daenerys said. “How is the court there?”

“Poisonous,” Sansa said, “but easily led. They follow Cersei because they are frightened of her and the Lannister army, but they do not love her. If they are given a reason to follow another, they will, but whoever sits on the throne should always watch their backs.”

“I expected nothing less,” Daenerys said. “Though I’m sure I will come to miss the Dothraki’s forthright methods of expressing their disapproval.”

“The worst of the snakes is gone now,” Sansa said. “Petyr Baelish. Those that remain do not have nearly his cunning or his reach. There are plenty to still be wary of; is that what you wished to ask about?”

“No—well, yes, but that is not why I asked you to join me.” Daenerys drank deeply from her glass before setting it aside. “Lord Snow and Lord Tyrion both speak highly of you. I see why. And I apologize that I must ask this of you when you deserve more.”

“Your Grace?” 

Daenerys sighed and settled back in her chair, losing the air of queenliness she kept so close about her at all times. Her features softened, her face becoming that of a girl hardly older than Sansa rather than the remote, self-assured, ageless creature of myth she seemed from a distance. “How old were you when Cersei forced you to marry Lord Tyrion?”

Only long practice kept Sansa from flinching at those words. Of all the things for Daenerys to ask—of all the conversations for them to have—she had not expected this. She breathed in, gathered herself, and said, “I was nearly fifteen, Your Grace.”

Daenerys nodded slowly. “That’s near the age I was when my brother sold me to the Dothraki.” Her eyes flicked up. “Lord Tyrion—he did not hurt you?”

“No,” Sansa said softly. “Not him.”

“But someone did,” Daenerys said. “Your second husband.”

“Yes,” Sansa said after a pause. She couldn’t find the breath to say anything else.

“I’m sorry—I shouldn’t be prying like this.” Daenerys’s hand flexed into a fist where it rested on the table. “I speak of this because I want you to know that I understand. I was lucky with Khal Drogo—or, well. Perhaps not lucky. He treated me like a brood mare for the first months of our marriage. The fact that we came to care for each other—I still wonder if I came to love him truly for his sake or if it was the power from being his wife that I loved. In the end, it all came to the same thing. He died, and here I am.” 

“Your Grace,” Sansa said. “I thank you for telling me this, but…”

“To what end?” Daenerys finished, lips quirking. “Yes, I should get to the point. What all of this is to say is that I never want to force another woman into an unwanted marriage, and particularly I would never want to do that to you. But Lady Stark, I come to you today to ask you to marry again, not for love, but for an alliance. I hate that I must do so, and you are free to refuse. I am sure we can find another way, if we look hard enough.”

“Your Grace,” Sansa said slowly, wondering how horrible it could be, “who is it that you wish me to marry?”

Daenerys looked Sansa in the eye and said, “Jon Snow.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> starting to see advertisements for season 8 which means I have to get my shit together! thanks to formerlydf for giving the chapter a once-over.

For a moment, Sansa’s poise broke. Her mouth opened, eyes widening—and then all trace of surprise was gone, her calm expression back in place. She bowed her head. “Your Grace.”

“You have no objections?” Daenerys raised her eyebrows. “Until a few days ago you thought of him as your brother.”

“Do I have a choice, Your Grace?” Sansa asked. 

Daenerys bristled, started to snap that no, she didn’t—that this was her command—and then she caught herself. “Yes,” she said. “You do. But I am asking this of you because I believe this is the way we will win this war. Both wars.”

“You believe this is the only way the North will keep faith,” Sansa said. “I understand that. What I don’t understand is how this will help _you_. Surely Jon could rally your people and mine with our union. I see that as a danger to you, not an asset.”

“Jon will renounce his claim to the throne,” Daenerys said. “In exchange, you will have my men to fight the White Walkers, and your children will be my heirs. The North will remain part of the kingdom, but Winterfell will be the seat of the heirs to the Iron Throne. There is power and autonomy in that which your north men cannot deny.”

“Our children? What of yours?”

Daenerys hesitated, hand drifting down to her belly. The dreams where she felt Rhaegal against her ribs rarely troubled her now, but there were times the echo hammered inside her. But her stomach was flat as always. “I will have none,” she said finally. “My only child lies dead in Pentos. I will bear no others.”

Sansa’s gaze followed Daenerys’s hand. “I see, Your Grace.” She sat quietly for a moment, staring at Daenerys’s stomach, but with a distant look in her eyes. “And what of the Stark name?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Our house name,” Sansa said. “Bran will father no children. Arya and I are the last of the Stark line who may bring more into the world, and Arya—well. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell, Your Grace. We have been Wardens of the North for centuries.”

“Name your children Stark if you must,” Daenerys said. “The secondborn, let them carry the name on. Winterfell shall be theirs.”

“Secondborn? You presume a great deal,” Sansa said. 

“I hope,” Daenerys said. “Not presume.”

Sansa looked up then and met Daenerys’s gaze. “And it is hope, isn’t it, that we do this for.” 

“Yes,” Daenerys said. 

“You’ve spoken to Jon about this already?”

“Yes.”

Sansa fell silent then, bowing her head in thought. Daenerys waited. She had thought, once, that when she returned to the shores of Westeros, things would be simpler. She had imagined that the hardest parts would be watching her men kill, but though still part of her ached to see it, she had learned to stomach the blood. What was hardest—what made her chest tighten and her breath catch—was when she had to decide the fate of a single person. When she had to watch their face as their future stretched out before them. 

“Very well,” Sansa said at last. “We can discuss the marriage as part of the terms of our alliance.” She rose and curtsied deeply, more deeply than she had when Daenerys had arrived at Winterfell. “Let our two houses be joined, Your Grace, now and forever.”

“So it is agreed.” Daenerys stood too and held out her hand. After a moment’s pause, Sansa took it. “Rise, Lady Stark. We may be family soon enough.”

Sansa actually smiled at that. It was not a very bright smile, but it was enough to transform her face. Daenerys was startled to feel a strange pull in her stomach; she thought, for the first time in years, of Doreah. 

“True,” Sansa said. “In which case I believe you should call me Sansa, not Lady Stark.”

“And you may call me Daenerys when we are in private.” Daenerys inclined her head. “I am grateful, Sansa. I will take my leave so you might have solitude, but should you wish to speak with me, you need only come find me.”

“Before you go, may I ask you something?”

Daenerys had already been turning to leave, but the tone of Sansa’s voice, if nothing else, halted her in her step. There was steel in her voice that did not broker refusal or avoidance. When she looked back, Sana’s expression had once again become stone, her gaze fixed upon Daenerys’s face. Her hands were clasped lightly before her breast, giving her the air of a septa ready to hear confession.

“Yes, of course,” Daenerys said lightly. “What is it?”

“Why do you wish to be queen?”

Of all the questions Sansa could have asked, that was the one Daenerys had least expected. Her confusion must have shown on her face, because Sansa elaborated without prompting. 

“I’ve met a few women now who wanted to be queen,” Sansa said. “Some of them said they wanted to do good, and I believed them. Some of them only wanted power. I don’t know you, Your Grace. My br—Jon may have agreed to bend the knee, but _I_ am the Lady of Winterfell now. Why should I ask my people to follow you?”

Daenerys had a dozen answers at the tip of her tongue. Some were flip and glib; others were polished speeches she had prepared to use on Jon, on the Ironborn, on the common folk living in King’s Landing. None of them, she realized, would suit the girl standing in front of her, the girl who easily could have been queen herself. Instead, she told the truth. 

“My life was not easy,” Daenerys said. “I spent my childhood poor and homeless, dependent on the kindness of others. I had a brother who cared little for me, and a whole kingdom of people who wanted me dead. But I had a title, as useless as it was, and I had a name that could strike fear or inspire loyalty in people’s hearts. I was lucky, to be born a Targaryen. My name protected me as far as any girl in my situation could be protected. 

“I grew up seeing girls like me raped, abused, used, tortured, murdered. I have an army of soldiers who were mutilated as children and raised to die at the whim of their masters. If I were an ordinary girl from Essos, I could do nothing for them. But I am a Targaryen, the rightful heir to the Iron Throne, and I _can_ do something.”

“You’re an idealist,” Sansa said. 

“Yes,” Daenerys said. “I suppose I am.”

Sansa half-smiled and dropped her hands to her sides, her posture relaxing just enough to set Daenerys back at ease. “I can see why Jon loves you.”

The floor seemed to drop from beneath Daenerys at her words. Only years of self-discipline that kept her voice from faltering as she said, “I beg your pardon?”

“It’s all right,” Sansa said. “I don’t think anyone else has worked it out, though if you’re hoping to hide it, you ought to teach him to hide his emotions.” 

“Is it obvious?” Daenerys found herself asking instead of denying it outright as she should. But Sansa should know, had the _right_ to know, if Daenerys was asking this of her. And—she could admit this to herself—it felt so good to have someone other Missandei know the truth. 

“Only to those of us who know him well,” Sansa said. “Arya—she’ll come around, if she figures it out. Bran doesn’t seem to care about many things these days. The rest, well—they’re just as awestruck as he is, so I doubt they see it as strange. You, you’re better at pretending than he is, but when he’s around you’re—different.”

Daenerys had to look away, her eyes burning. “I know I shouldn’t ask you to marry a man who doesn’t love you, not again.”

There was a hand on her shoulder, graceful, long-fingered. “Your Grace,” Sansa said. “I haven’t thought that I would marry for love since the day my father died. At least this way I get to be part of a love story, even if it isn’t mine.”

Daenerys reached up and twined her fingers with Sansa’s, biting the inside of her lip. She thought of Jon’s hands, gentle against her skin despite the roughness of his palms, the way he looked at her with admiration and yet did not fear to challenge her. No one had ever loved her like Jon loved her. “He will be good to you.”

“I know he will.” Sansa sounded almost sad. “He is a good and honorable man.”

“Yes,” Daenerys said, at last losing the battle with her composure, her voice cracking. “He is that.” Sansa’s hand tightened on hers briefly, and then Daenerys was standing, pulling away, and out the door. 

 

Missandei was waiting outside the room, her hands clasped in front of her. She dipped her head in acknowledgement and fell into step beside Daenerys. “You have asked her?”

“Yes,” Daenerys said. “She agreed.”

“A good thing,” Missandei said. She sounded hopeful rather than sure. “Isn’t it, Your Grace?”

“Yes.” Daenerys shivered as a gust of wind came through an open door and pulled her fur cloak tighter around her shoulders. “Where is Lord Tyrion?”

“He is with Ser Davos in the strategy room,” Missandei said. 

“And J—Lord Snow?”

“He is training with the men in the courtyard.” Missandei touched Daenerys’s elbow. “Your Grace, I—I know this is not easy for you.”

“I didn’t set out to claim my throne thinking it would be easy.”

“Yes, Your Grace. But this is different.”

Daenerys wanted to round on Missandei, reprimand her for speaking so freely—but that was an old instinct. Missandei knew her; and Daenerys loved her as she might have loved a sister. So instead she said, “It is.”

Missandei regarded her for a moment, then gave a short nod. “I’ll take you to Lord Snow, Your Grace. You ought to tell him the news.”

Missandei had learned the passageways of Winterfell quickly. She didn’t pause once to check her surroundings as she led Daenerys through the chill halls and out into the icy air. Handmaiden, Daenerys thought, was far too small a title for Missandei. She would have to think of something adequate once she sat on the throne. 

Jon was indeed out in the courtyard, drilling with a handful of soldiers. He had shed his great cloak and seemed hardly to notice the snow lighting upon his face and hair. His white wolf sat in the shelter of the forge, watching his master closely. Daenerys could sympathize. Jon was handsome—she knew that already—but seeing him in action reframed him as a warrior. She had watched enough fighting in her day to recognize that Jon was excellent, strong and dexterous, but he was careful with the men he was teaching, gently correct their mistakes with a kind word and a gentle nudge. 

“We should have him and Grey Worm spar,” Daenerys said. “Could be quite interesting.”

“You want to keep Lord Snow alive, don’t you?” Missandei asked, amusement coloring her voice. “Grey Worm would never let him win. He’d see it as a dishonor to you.”

“I suppose you’re right. Maybe one day we’ll convince him.” 

Jon looked up then and caught sight of them. He turned to say something to the men before approaching her, his sword returned to its sheath. Daenerys’s breath caught; oh, gods, she thought. I really am in trouble. 

“Your Grace,” Jon said with a deferential nod. “How are you enjoying our Northern winters?”

“I never thought I would long for the desert,” Daenerys said, “but I’m finding I miss it more every day.”

They shared a brief smile before they both recalled themselves and looked away. Jon cleared his throat and scuffed one foot through the snow, leaving a smear of black earth. “What did she say?”

“She has agreed,” Daenerys said, “pending the alliance discussions with your sworn lords.” She dropped her voice, though no one was near save Missandei, and even she had fallen back a step to give them more privacy. “If either of you decide that you don’t want this marriage, I will not object—”

“No,” Jon said. “I mean—thank you. But I at least won’t.” He attempted a smile, but only managed to raise one corner of his mouth. “It’s the best way, as you said.”

“Do you—” _love her_ , Daenerys started to say before she bit her tongue, furious with herself. “Do you think your other cousins will object?” she asked instead. 

“Well,” Jon said, “Bran probably already knows. Arya—she won’t like it, but she’ll get used to it.”

“With that settled, we must decide how to address the northern lords,” Daenerys said. “Tonight. We shouldn’t delay.”

“I agree.” Jon looked to the sky. “I’ve had no word from Eastwatch, which may be a good thing; but I’d have thought someone would have sent a raven to let us know all was well.”

Daenerys shivered, not from the cold, but from the memory of the icy, emotionless stare of the Night King as he threw a spear into her dragon’s heart. She imagined those hordes spilling like insects through the wall, rampaging south worse than any horde of soldiers. Perhaps the only mercy was that they killed quickly; but it was small comfort. 

“Yes,” Daenerys said. “As soon as we have the army we need—as soon as your dragonglass is worked—we march north.”

They shared another look, this one of mutual understanding. They, more than anyone at Winterfell, understood what was truly at stake. And Daenerys had not crossed an ocean to abandon her people to the White Walkers; they might not know it yet, but they were her children too, and she would protect them until her last breath.

 

The room where they had first gathered when Daenerys arrived at Winterfell was their meeting place that evening, the small circle of those who knew the truth gathered to discuss how they would share what they knew. As Jon had predicted, Arya seemed perturbed at the idea of him and Sansa marrying, but she did not protest as Jon calmly laid out their intentions. But before any of that—before they could even approach the subject—they would have to declare Jon a Targaryen and Daenerys’s heir as well, which, as it turned out, would be no easy feat. Sam, they all agreed, would have to present the maester’s testimony, and Bran would be there too, but--

“They’re stubborn,” Sansa said. “My fear is that many of them don’t truly believe the White Walkers are coming; they only believe what Jon has told them.”

“It’s true,” Jon admitted. “They trust what they can see with their own eyes. So though we all can agree that Bran is telling the truth, it may be hard to convince them.” He looked at Bran. “Is there anything you can tell us that will help us prove what you say?”

Bran was silent for a long moment, his eyes distant. “Lord Reed,” he said at last, gaze focusing on the present once again. “He was at the Tower. He will verify that Lyanna had a child. I will write a raven to Meera.”

“Is this really the best path?” Davos asked as Tyrion passed a quill and parchment to Bran. “There’s no need to risk scattering the northern alliance. If we’re careful, there’s no reason anyone has to know Jon’s really a Targaryen. No need for a marriage, no need for all this.”

“Keeping Lyanna and Rhaegar’s secret destroyed a dynasty,” Jon said. “If we are forthright and honest, it cannot be turned into a weapon against us.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Daenerys caught Sansa arching her eyebrows, but she didn’t contradict him. “It’s a risk,” Daenerys said. “But I agree with Lord Snow that keeping secrets from those who are willing to die for us is a poor way to keep faith.” She looked around the table. “How long will it take a raven to reach Greywater Watch?” 

Tyrion gave her a small, pleased nod at her memory of the seat of House Reed. “Perhaps a day and a half, there and back.”

“Faster if I go with it,” Bran said without looking up. 

“So tomorrow evening, then,” Daenerys said. “Once we have Lord Reed’s sworn statement in hand, there is no need to wait any longer.”

“Yes; and he will be here by then,” Bran said. As one, everyone seated at the table turned to stare at him. He seemed not to notice until Sansa gently laid her hand on his arm, and then he lifted his head. “Oh. I meant to say before. I can’t always remember what I’ve said. Jaime Lannister will be here by nightfall.”

“Jaime?” Tyrion asked with a visible start. “With the Lannister forces?”

“No, he is alone,” Bran said. “He has been traveled a great distance to bring you news in person, Daenerys. I suggest you speak with him as soon as he arrives.”

“He tried to kill me,” Daenerys remarked. 

“Me as well,” Bran said. Daenerys’s gaze fell to the chair that Bran sat in. When she raised her eyes, Bran was gazing back steadily. 

“Very well,” Daenerys said. She pushed her chair back and stood. Everyone save Tyrion and Bran did the same. “It is decided then. Let the northern lords know that we will speak with them tomorrow evening and open discussions on the terms of this alliance. I will speak with my own people. I have not had much opportunity to tell them of what we face here.”

Jorah met her at the outskirts of her army’s camp and went with her as she called them all to attention. She spoke first in Valeryian, then in Dothraki, and finally in Westerosi, telling them the truth: that the foe they faced here was unlike any other. That, should they defeat the Night King, they would be honored in glory beyond any others. That this was not simply a fight for a throne any longer, but a fight for life. And when she asked if they would fight with her, they raised their voice as one and answered in many languages: Yes.

After, she walked among the camp to see how her people were faring. There was a shortage of warm furs and blankets, but the Starks had sent a supply of wool and cured leather for their use and her people were already working to turn them into serviceable clothing. The Dothraki in particular were suffering from the chill, though they would never admit as much. To be bested by something as mortal as weather was not for the likes of them. 

There was a warm familiarity in speaking Dothraki again, to hear their boasts of battle rather than spend endless hours contemplating tiny moves of state and alliance. She had been acting as queen for so long that she’d half-forgotten what it meant to be khaleesi: not just a ruler, but a leader, one who joined her people in battle and stood at their side, as Drogo had. She stayed longer than she meant, and was only urged back to Winterfell by Missandei, who sought her ought and insisted she return to sleep.

But though her bed was comfortable and her quarters were warm, sleep did not come. Sleep often eluded her. Her mind raced with plans and scenarios, running over her lessons and briefings. This lord might be persuaded to lend her men; this hold was poorly guarded but well positioned. So many pieces constantly moving about her head, and now she had the additions of Sansa Stark and Jaime Lannister to consider. Sansa she understood, or thought she did: loyal, probing, strong-willed. Jaime Lannister—all she knew of him was that he’d killed her father, and that he’d nearly done the same to her.

After she’d lain awake for more than an hour, she gave up on sleep and rose from her bed. Missandei did not stir; she had busy all day, and Daenerys was not surprised she slept deeply. Still, she took care to step lightly as she took her cloak and boots before slipping from her room and taking to the ramparts of the castle. 

The sky had cleared with the evening, and the stars shone brightly overhead as she gazed out over the snow-blanketed land. In the moonlight it could have passed for desert dunes, save for the trees. The soldiers she passed seemed not to know whether to bow, and instead greeted her with either a brief nod or a murmured, “Your Grace.” She made a point of looking them in the eye as she went, courteously nodding in return.

As she approached the front gates of Winterfell, she saw a familiar silhouette standing at the wall: Tyrion. She came to stand beside him and tried to follow his gaze, wondering if he saw his brother somewhere on the horizon. 

“You should be inside, Your Grace,” Tyrion said after a while. “It’s cold out here.”

“Mm, yes,” Daenerys said. “I had noticed.”

“Ha.” Tyrion shivered and tugged his cloak tighter about himself. “I always wondered what it would be like serving a funny queen.”

“You think I’m funny, Lord Tyrion?”

“You have your moments.” Tyrion took a deep breath. “You did well with Lady Sansa. She likes you, I think. Hard to read these days. I have to admit, I wasn’t sure she’d agree.”

“You weren’t?”

“I thought maybe she’d had enough of the great game,” Tyrion said. “Now she won’t ever be able to escape it.” 

“She is very beautiful,” Daenerys observed. “Has she always been so?”

“I suppose so, yes,” Tyrion said after a brief, tense silence. “She was a pretty girl. Hardly more than a child when I met her.”

“And barely more than that when you wed her.” Daenerys heard the censure in her voice and wished she could take it back; but she could not help but remember her own wedding, the terror that had quivered in her breast as she was prepared for Drogo. Sansa had been even younger than she, and they had both been pawns in someone else’s game. “You say you never bed her?”

“I don’t go to bed with unwilling women,” Tyrion said, his tone also sharpening. “And as you say, she was hardly more than a child.”

“And yet you married her anyway.” Daenerys’s rage was rising in the pit of her stomach, the same anger she felt when she thought of her mother, dying alone at Dragonstone, and her brother’s wife being murdered in her home with her children dead at her feet. Her anger was misdirected, she knew that, but she found herself glaring at Tyrion anyway, hating him in that moment for his complicity. “Even though she was an unwilling child.”

“We were not given a choice,” Tyrion snapped. “If I had not married her, they would have found someone else to control her. She was a hostage, and Joffrey would have—I don’t _know_ what he would have done.”

“So instead you abandoned her,” Daenerys said. 

“I _escaped from prison_ ,” Tyrion said. “I was hardly a fit husband for her at that point.”

“And yet not once did you ask after her welfare, not until Jon Snow arrived at Dragonstone.” Daenerys forced her fists to unclench and took in a deep, steadying breath. “Do you know what happened to her while you were sailing to join me?”

Tyrion’s jaw twitched and he looked down. “Your Grace, I—”

“Enough.” Daenerys waved her hand and sank down in the chair by the fire. “I’m sorry, I…I know you tried your best with her.”

“If staying at her side would have protected her, I would have done it,” Tyrion said, then, “well—perhaps not. At that time I was ready to drown myself in the bottle. But I still believe it was safer for her to be away from me. She’s alive, at least.”

“Yes,” Daenerys said, acutely aware that Tyrion could not possibly understand his own ignorance. “I suppose there’s that.” 

“She’s hardly helpless,” Tyrion said after a long pause. “She never was, even when she believed it of herself. I’ve never seen anyone lie so gracefully. My family may not have believed it, but the people did. She made quite an impression on King’s Landing while she was there. And these northern lords love her. Did you hear about what she did to the man responsible for—well, for this whole mess of the five kings?” 

“No; who was he?”

“Petyr Baelish, a whoremonger and Master of Coin to Robert Baratheon. He wished to marry Lady Catelyn Stark, once; then he set his eyes on Sansa. The whole time he plotted and moved people against one another to gain himself more power. I suppose he thought to one day sit on the Iron Throne himself, perhaps through Sansa. But when she discovered the depths of his treachery—that he was responsible for an attempt on her brother’s life and the betrayal of her father—Sansa had Arya kill him in full sight of the northern lords. They say he cried her name as he died, and she never blinked once.” Tyrion arched his eyebrows. “Remind you of anyone?”

Daenerys inclined her head in acknowledgment. “Perhaps she should be queen.”

“In another life, perhaps,” Tyrion said. “But I don’t believe she aspires to the throne. And marrying you off to your heir should negate that potential threat.”

“You never stop plotting, do you?” 

“That is why you named me Hand, Your Grace.” Tyrion bowed slightly. “If I stopped plotting, we would all be in trouble.”

“And what are you plotting in regards to your brother?” Daenerys rested her gloved hands upon the wall and noted that the chill still seemed to seep through the fabric. “You seemed surprised he was coming. He didn’t send a raven?”

“No,” Tyrion said. “Which is what concerns me. That, and that he is apparently coming alone. If he were coming with the men Cersei promised, that would be one thing. But coming alone makes me suspect something has gone terribly wrong.”

“You trust your brother.”

“With my life,” Tyrion said. “And I don’t say that lightly.”

“I hope that trust will be rewarded,” Daenerys said. “I mean that.”

“I appreciate that, Your Grace.” Tyrion yawned theatrically “It’s late; we both ought to be in bed. We have long days and nights ahead of us.”

“I’d like to stay up a while longer,” Daenerys said, turning to look out in the direction of her camped soldiers. “I’m not tired just yet.”

“As you will, Your Grace.” Tyrion bowed and started to walk away. He turned back to look at her. “It was a brave thing you did, asking Lady Stark to marry Jon Snow.”

“It’s good politics,” Daenerys said tightly. She did not like the knowing tone of Tyrion’s voice; sometimes, she thought, he saw far too much. “That’s all.”

“That as well. Good night, Your Grace.” 

She listened to his footsteps fade away as she gazed out over the snow-covered land. The wind was blowing from the north, and on it, she fancied she could smell the oncoming dead.


	5. Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> brief interlude

When Jaime was a boy, he dreamed of honor and glory. He dreamed of serving the ream and its king, of a great horse and a white cloak, and of his sister. 

But there was no honor to be found in the service of the Mad King, and no glory in the bloody business of ending his reign. Even in the moment when he’d driven his sword through Aerys’s back—even after he’d watched Rickard Stark burn alive and his son strangle himself trying to save him, even after he’d heard Aerys give the order to blow the city--he thought, but he is my king. And something had broken, then, and continued to break after. He had killed the king to save the realm, but no one honored him for it. No one thanked him. Instead they called him Oathbreaker and Kingslayer and the new king made him listen while he fucked Cersei and his whores, forced him to stand guard while he drank and ate his way through his rule. All the while Jaime wore his white cloak and shining armor as the stink of dishonor rose from him. 

There had been a time—a brief time—when he’d thought perhaps it would be worth it to see his own son on the throne. But then Joffrey had come along, far too like his mother and his supposed father both, all their worst qualities distilled in him. Jaime knew he would die for this king, no matter how mad he was, and that shamed him sometimes; but Joffrey was his son and his king besides. 

Then it had been Tommen, and him, Jaime was honored to serve. Tommen was a good boy, might even had been a good king in time, and Jaime hadn’t even been there when he died. Instead he’d come back to find Cersei on the throne he’d sworn his life to, and the city burned just as Aerys had once threatened, and he turned his eyes away from the destroyed streets, because this was Cersei, who he loved more than honor, more than duty. 

But not, it seemed, more than the realm. 

The journey from King’s Landing to Winterfell was long and made longer by the route he took, careful to avoid major roads and large towns where his face might be recognized. As he went deeper into the north, the snow became thicker on the ground, and he had to pick his way ever more carefully to keep from laming his horse. He couldn’t afford the time or expense of finding a replacement mount; every day he took was another day Cersei had to prepare her forces. 

At night, he dreamt of wildfire. He saw Aerys, turning into Cersei, saying, “Burn them all,” and he saw himself taking his sword, just as he had so many years before, and holding it to her throat. Beneath his hand her heart beat slow and calm. 

“You haven’t the spine,” she said, and around them the Red Keep burst into wicked green flame, Cersei laughing as it did. 

He woke and rode on. 

When Winterfell at last began to draw into view, no more than a shadow on the horizon, a weight lifted from Jaime’s chest. He had never thought to come back to Winterfell, and there were many reasons to fear it. The memory of his hand on the boy Brandon’s chest, pushing him from the window; fighting Ned Stark in the streets of King’s Landing; riding down upon Daenerys Targaryen with a spear in his hand—but even if they killed him once he passed the gates, he would tell them of Cersei’s treachery. He had to do at least that.

He slept that night in an abandoned house that had been stripped of all valuables long ago. Part of a Bolton banner lay on the floor, charred around the edges. Jaime took petty pleasure in rubbing it beneath his boot. He ate the last of his rations over a small fire and spent the night trying to sleep but unable to catch more than an hour here and there. He was too close to the shadow of Winterfell now, and there was no guarantee he’d survive to see another night. He wanted to feel every moment of it. 

At dawn, Jaime rose and went out to saddle his horse; to his surprise, another horse was hitched to the same tree he had chosen. He put a hand to his sword, but just as he was about to draw, a familiar voice said, “Hello, Jaime.”

Jaime turned slowly, sure that he had gone completely mad from loneliness and exhaustion. But no. There stood Lady Brienne of Tarth, clad in dark armor and a heavy cloak, with Oathkeeper at her hip. Her cheeks were flushed with cold, which brought out the piercing blue of her eyes. She was not smiling, but then, she rarely was. 

“Lady Brienne,” Jaime said, sketching a bow. “What a coincidence to find you here on the road.”

“No coincidence,” Brienne said. “Lady Stark thought you might like an escort for the final leg of your journey.”

Jaime stopped, hand settling on the hilt of his sword once again. “And how,” he said carefully, “did Lady Stark know I was coming?”

Brienne gave him a blank look, which either meant she didn’t know or wasn’t willing to tell him. Jaime had thought he had done a good job of avoiding notice, but apparently not. If Bronn ever found out—well, Bronn was unlikely to find out, wasn’t he, so no danger there. 

Instead of raising a fuss, he put on his most obnoxious smile and bowed much more deeply. “Well, I am honored to be escorted by the trusted knight of Lady Stark,” he said. “She must very much want me alive if she sent you.”

“Do you suppose that I could not kill you, if she asked me to?” Brienne snapped. 

“I suppose that you would at least hesitate,” Jaime said. Then, despite himself, he said, “Wouldn’t you?”

His voice came out too plaintive; he wanted so badly for Brienne to say yes, of course she would hesitate. Why did he want her to say that? Aside from his admiration of her; he’d cut down plenty of people he admired, after all. Jaime found he couldn’t quite look Brienne in the face as he waited for her answer, so he stared instead at the clasp of her cloak, which bore the direwolf of the Starks rather than her own house’s sigil.

“Get on your horse, Ser Jaime,” Brienne said at last. “We still have a day’s ride to Winterfell.”

“Well, you haven’t changed a bit,” Jaime muttered. Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw Brienne smile, but when he looked back, she was gazing out at the sky. 

 

Jaime remembered Brienne talking a lot, but as they rode toward Winterfell, he realized that really he’d been the one doing all the talking and Brienne had only been replying to him in kind. He tried asking her about Sansa Stark, or about how she liked the north, and all he got were single syllable replies. Finally, exasperated, he said, “Are you always this taciturn, or is it just with me?”

Brienne threw him an irritated look. “Jaime, no one save perhaps your brother can talk enough to keep up with you.”

“Ah ha!” Jaime waved his hand at her. “She speaks!”

“I don’t have the talent for idle conversation,” Brienne said with that same brand of self-defensiveness and pride he remembered when she spoke about her youth training to be a knight. “There were more important things to learn.”

“Idle conversation is vitally important,” Jaime argued. “Why, I learn more from idle conversation than my dear brother does from all his reading. Though I suppose he does read _and_ have idle conversations, which may explain why he’s the politician of the family.”

“You’re babbling, Ser Jaime,” Brienne said. “Are you nervous?”

“Why should I be?” he asked. “I’ve only spent the last five years at war with everyone in that castle.”

“Lady Stark has declared a peace within the walls of Winterfell,” Brienne said. “You’re in no danger.”

“Lady _Stark_ is just a girl,” Jaime said. “What does the King in the North say?”

“He says what Lady Stark says,” Brienne said, “and she’s not ‘just’ anything.” She fixed Jaime with a glare. “If you’re intending to win favor, you might want to refrain from such comments.”

“I’m much better behaved when I’m not around you,” Jaime said, and he was alarmed to realize that was true. 

“I’m honored,” Brienne said dryly. 

The early night had come when they arrived at the outskirts of the Targaryen encampment. Brienne led him around instead of through—probably a good idea, even if Jaime wasn’t in Lannister colors—and to the gates proper where she called out her name and Jaime’s to the guards on duty. The gates creaked open slowly, and through the widening crack, Jaime could see the flame-colored hair of Sansa Stark and the dark hair of Jon Snow. 

“Well,” he said to Brienne, “this may be the last time we ever speak. Kiss for luck?”

Brienne slapped his horse on the rear and sent him trotting ahead. Jaime, chest tightening, adjusted his grip on the reins and, head held high, rode through the gates of Winterfell to meet his fate.


	6. Chapter 5

Jaime Lannister rode through the gates at a slow, exhausted pace, his horse barely lifting its hooves from the ground. For a moment, Jon saw the golden knight who had arrived at Winterfell all those years ago, who’d removed his helmet to shake out his golden hair, before his vision cleared and he was left looking at the worn, faded man before him. His hair was long and unkempt, his usually clean-shaven face now sporting several weeks’ worth of beard. Behind him rode Brienne of Tarth, her chin lifted proudly as she glared around the courtyard. 

Few people were outside; Brienne had timed their arrival to coincide with supper, so only Jon and Tyrion were there to greet him, though the guards on watch clearly were curious about the new arrival. Jaime dismounted wearily, half-stumbling before regaining his balance. Jon waved for a hostler to take his horse, and approached cautiously. 

“Ser Jaime,” he said politely. 

“Lord Snow,” Jaime said. “I would apologize for not sending word ahead of my arrival, but it seems you were forewarned regardless.”

“I see you did not bring an army with you,” Jon said, unable to keep the sarcasm from his voice. “I recall the promise of an army.”

“Yes, well,” Jaime said, “that is, in fact, why I have come all this way.” Up close, Jon could see the thinness of his cheeks. “There isn’t an army coming.”

“What do you mean?” Tyrion asked sharply, stepping in front of Jon. 

“I mean Cersei lied,” Jaime said. He barked out a sharp, brittle laugh and ran his hand over his face. “Gods, Tyrion. She never intended to give you anything.”

“But the—” Tyrion broke off and glanced back at Jon. “I thought she was _sufficiently motivated_.”

“She doesn’t care.” Jaime sighed. “Tyrion, not that it isn’t wonderful to see your dreadfully bearded face again—and yours as well, Lord Snow—but I have been traveling for days and would like to have this conversation as few times as possible. Might I have a rest until we are able to confer with the Dragon Queen?”

“Her Grace sends you her greetings,” Tyrion said, “and wishes me to inform you that a guard will be posted outside your door until she decides to speak with you.”

“I suppose that is fair,” Jaime said. “I did kill her father.”

“And tried to kill her,” Tyrion said. “What on earth were you thinking, charging at a dragon like that?”

“You charged down one of her dragons?” Jon asked, startled. “How are you still alive?”

“Sheer luck,” muttered Tyrion. “All right, let’s get inside before you catch your death. You already look halfway there.”

Jon left Tyrion to escort Jaime to his chambers and returned to the hall where Sansa had convinced one of the men from House Glover to perform a ballad. Daenerys was smiling as Sansa murmured in her ear, and as Jon passed he overheard enough to determine Sansa was explaining the tale behind the song. 

When Jon sat, Sansa broke away to say in an undertone, “He has arrived?” and when Jon gave a terse nod, the three of them looked to each other. Jon wondered if either of them felt discomforted, as he did, by Bran’s uncanny accuracy, or if their minds were bent to the politics they would have to play once dinner had finished. Jon was busy calculating what it meant that the Lannisters would send no men—what that left their numbers at and whether it would be enough to turn the odds firmly against them. 

They left together, Daenerys and Sansa taking the lead in a carefully choreographed show of unity. Sansa and Tyrion were the ones who advised on such bits of pageantry, conferring on where everyone ought to sit to avoid any impression of precedence or dischord, how and when they should be seen in each other’s company, what colors they were to wear. Jon found it all exhausting to contemplate, and at times he could sense a similar irritation from Daenerys, though she never gave voice to it. He understood that the coming days would be largely about managing perceptions, but he longed for the simplicity of a sword in his hand.

In the privacy of Jaime Lannister’s chambers, Tyrion and Jaime were already seated at the table, heads bent close in conversation. At the opening of the door, both rose, Tyrion with a bow, Jaime with a slightly defiant glance toward Daenerys. A moment later, Missandei arrived with Davos and Arya, and they closed the door with a firm thud. 

“Welcome to Winterfell, Ser Jaime,” Sansa said, peerlessly polite as ever. “I hope you found your escort helpful.”

“Very accommodating,” Jaime said. “Certainly more than the last time we traveled together. It is good to see you well, Lady Stark.” He did bow then, and Jon thought he detected a hint of sincerity in Jaime’s words. 

“Jaime, you’ve met Her Grace,” Tyrion said, glancing from his brother to Daenerys. “Your Grace, my brother Jaime Lannister.”

“Mm,” Daenerys said. “Yes, we have met.” 

Jon, wanting desperately to break the uncomfortable tension of the room, suggested that they sit. Davos, Missandei, and Arya remained standing, Missandei a little behind Daenerys and Arya against the door while Davos paced along the wall. Once seated, Jaime seemed less at ease, his gaze dropping away to fix on the table. There was a deeply unpleasant silence for the space of a full minute before he sighed noisily. 

“Well, I suppose it can’t be danced around,” he said. “As your King in the North noted, I come with no army, only my own horse and sword. Cersei is not sending her army north. She has chosen instead to shore up her own defenses in order to fight you once you are exhausted by the dead.”

“Ah,” Daenerys said. “So she has betrayed her promise to us.” She turned her head to fix Tyrion with a fierce look. “I seem to recall being assured that she would keep her word.”

“I had every reason to believe she would,” Tyrion said. “I am sorry, Your Grace.”

“You believed the word of Cersei Lannister?” Sansa asked, eyebrows going up. “Surely, Lord Tyrion, you and I know her better than that.”

“As I said, I had reason to believe—” Tyrion started, but Jaime cut him off. 

“Oh, just tell them,” he said sharply. He set his jaw and looked up at Daenerys. “What he isn’t saying is that my sister is with child, and he believed that would motivate her to keep to her agreement.”

Sansa made a quiet noise, too quiet for Jon to determine what it meant. Her hand twitched incrementally on the table; Jon suppressed the urge to lay his fingers over hers. 

“Of all Cersei’s many, many flaws, one of them is not insufficient love for her children,” Tyrion said. “When she—I thought she would see reason for sake of the child.”

“With child,” Daenerys said slowly. “And that child is—?”

“Yes,” Jaime said. “The child is mine.”

There was a strange sense of unreality in hearing him say it so boldly, after years of hearing the rumors denied or whispered. Jon had known, of course, that the reason Bran had been pushed from that tower so many years ago was to protect this particular secret; now, hearing Jaime state it outright tugged at the long dormant anger. 

“Still?” he asked. “After your sister destroyed half of King’s Landing, you would lie with her? After your union produced _Joffrey_ —”

“I love her,” Jaime said. Then, “I did love her.”

“That love ruined a kingdom,” Jon said. “For years you’ve kept your incest a secret at the cost of Bran’s legs, at the cost of my fa—of Ned Stark’s life. We went to _war_ because of it.”

“Targaryens wedded brother and sister for generations,” Jaime said. “You sit beside the product of such a union now. Our crime was that our children were born as bastards, not that they were ours.”

“People died for it,” Jon said. 

“Yes,” Jaime said. “And they died for Renly’s ego, and Ned Stark’s pride, and Stannis’s stubbornness. This isn’t the first time the Seven Kingdoms have gone to war because a member of the royal family bedded someone they shouldn’t have. What do you want? An apology? I am sorry for the war. I am sorry that your father is dead. I am sorry that I could not stop Cersei, but I will not apologize for my _children_.” Jaime drew in a breath that cracked, and in that moment everyone around the table seemed at once to realize that all of Jaime’s children were dead. 

The room was silent for an awful moment. Then Tyrion said, “This arguing is pointless. What we need to decide now is what to do without the forces Cersei promised us.”

“They are not Lannister men,” Jaime said. “Or at least, not solely Lannister men. She has the forces led by Euron Greyjoy, and he is now sailing to Essos to hire the Golden Company.”

“House Lannister can afford that?” Tyrion asked. 

“With a loan from the Iron Bank, we can.” Jaime sat back in his seat. “I came in part because there is no place left for me in the south now that I have parted from Cersei and in part because I trusted no one else to convey the truth to you safely. I do not know what else I might offer you, aside from my sword.”

“That may still be of use,” Daenerys said coolly. “You say she has the support of Euron Greyjoy. Do you know what has become of my ally, Queen Yara of the Iron Isles? I am told she was taken prisoner.”

“She was,” Jaime said. “I don’t know what has happened to her, but I can only think it’s fortunate that her uncle is far away from her. Cersei wanted to exact her revenge against Ellaria Sand particularly; Yara she does not care much about.”

“More the fool her.” Daenerys looked over at Jon. “Theon has rallied his remaining people and they intend to sail to King’s Landing to mount a rescue mission.”

“They will fail,” Jaime said flatly. “King’s Landing will not be taken by a handful of Ironborn alone.”

“Not without help,” Sansa said. At this, Arya pushed herself off the wall to stand at attention. She and Sansa exchanged a long glance before Sansa turned back to Jaime. “Ellaria Sand—is she alive?”

“Yes,” Jaime said coolly. “I’d have killed her outright, myself, but Cersei had a more...unique punishment in mind.”

“Hmm.” Sansa looked again at Arya, who nodded.

“I can do it,” Arya said. “Give me a fast horse and I’ll be on my way.”

“We will need you for a while longer,” Sansa said. “A few days longer, then—”

“Very well.” Arya sank back. Her hand was resting at the hilt of Needle, her mouth curved up in a small, terrible smile. 

Jaime frowned and looked to be about to speak when Daenerys raised her hand to forestall him. “And I think,” she said deliberately, “you can be of great use to us, Ser Jaime. You may be the Kingslayer, and a wretched idiot to boot, but you are a Lannister. Heir to Casterly Rock, if I’m not mistaken.”

“I do not _want_ Casterly Rock,” Jaime said. “Let Tyrion have it. I’d burn it to the ground if I could.”

“Then what do you want?”

“Clemency,” Jaime said. “Not for Cersei, or even myself—though I admit a desire for self-preservation—but—”

“For the child,” Daenerys said. When Jaime nodded, she drummed her fingers on the table, then said, very carefully, “You are sure she is with child?” 

This thought did not appear to have occurred to Jaime. “You think she’s lying?”

“It is a possibility we must consider, as well as the fact that my sister is not a young woman,” Tyrion said. “If there is indeed a child, she may not carry to term. I’m sorry to put it so bluntly, Jaime, but it has to be said.”

“Fine, very well,” Jaime said impatiently. “Maybe there will be a child, maybe there won’t—and please keep in mind this is _my_ child we’re speaking of—but I ask that you do nothing to prevent the child from being born and that you allow it to live. That is all I want.”

“It is a reasonable request,” Tyrion said. 

“Reasonable,” Daenerys agreed, “except that any child born to Cersei could, at a later date, make a bid for the throne. Not a well-supported claim, but a claim nonetheless.”

“Your Grace,” Tyrion said, “we could hide the child’s parentage,” and Jon thought of a conversation, so many years ago, at the Tower of Joy. Ned Stark, with a newborn prince in his arms. 

“No,” Jon said, startling everyone at the table. “Raise them in your court, Your Grace, as an honored member and niece or nephew to your Hand. You’ve said you intend to be a different sort of ruler. Start by raising them to be loyal, not to fear.”

Daenerys raised her hand again and waited for them all to become silent. “Very well,” she said. “We will guarantee safety for the child. In return, you will give us all information you know of Cersei’s plans, her allies in King’s Landing, and any weaknesses. You may not have brought an army with you, but you can still be of use. You are a Lannister, still; do you think some of the Lannister troops might be swayed from Cersei if you asked them to follow?”

“It’s possible,” Jaime said after a moment. “They see me as the Lord of Casterly Rock now that—” Tyrion coughed. “Yes.”

“And the Golden Company she intends to hire,” Daenerys said. “If we buy them out from under her?” She turned to Davos. “Ser Davos, I believe you know Braavosi custom. Do you think we could secure their services?” 

“Not in time for the war against the Night King,” Davos said. “Perhaps—I don’t want to leave, Your Grace, but a skilled negotiator might be able to convince them to change their allegiance.”

“Very well.” Daenerys stood, looking down at them all. “Ser Jaime Lannister, I agree to your terms. You will be kept under guard for your own safety while you are at Winterfell. We are beginning discussions with the northern lords tomorrow. You may join if you wish, though I warn you that you may not be well-received.”

“That I am acutely aware of,” Jaime said wryly. “If you believe my presence will help speed negotiations, I am happy to be there.”

“You want the alliance done quickly?” Daenerys asked. “That seems unlikely.”

Jaime’s mouth twisted in a semblance of a smile. “You brought the dead to King’s Landing,” he said. “I know what we face. There is no hope for any of us if we cannot muster in time to counter them.”

“Well said.” Daenerys contemplated Jaime for a moment longer, then nodded shortly. “Very well.”

To Jon’s surprise, Jaime rose at that and bowed, deeper than he had yet. “Your Grace,” he said. Jon thought he saw Daenerys smile; but a moment later, it was gone, and she was leaving the room with Missandei following behind. Arya slipped out quietly after a whispered exchange with Sansa, and Davos sent ahead, leaving Jon to escort Sansa back to her chambers. He offered his arm, which she took after only a moment’s hesitation, and together they left Tyrion and Jaime alone. 

Jon had not privately spoken to Sansa since she had agreed to marry him. He had been avoiding her, both out of fear and uncertainty. He knew Sansa had said yes, but she could not have wanted this, nor was he unaware that it would be unspeakable strange for both of them. He had seen Sansa grow up, from a toddler who chased in Robb’s footsteps to a slender, refined adolescent to the cool, calm lady she had become. And she was to be his wife.

He became aware that the silence between them was verging on impenetrable, and sought for something to say.

“I hear we’re to be married,” Jon said, aiming for levity. Sansa’s eyebrows went up, mouth twitching in amusement, and she gave a tiny irony-laden nod. 

“So I’m told,” she said. “Is that why you’ve been avoiding me?”

“I haven’t,” Jon said, which he knew was an obvious lie. 

“Yes, you have,” Sansa said. Then, shyly, “I’ve been avoiding you as well.”

Jon’s chest ached. “Sansa, I wouldn’t have—if it weren’t for the necessity of it, you know I wouldn’t ask you to do this.”

Sansa’s gaze darted to his, expression suddenly unsure; he hadn’t seen that look on her in ages. “It won’t be so very terrible, being married to me,” Sansa said, her voice lilting up as if in question. “I know I am hardly what you might have wanted—”

“Oh! No, that isn’t what I meant.” Jon stopped in front of the door to Sansa’s chambers, then hesitated. “May I come in?”

“Well, we _are_ to be married,” Sansa said with a small smile. She led him inside to sit at the small table where, once, Lady Catelyn and Ned Stark had taken their breakfast. Sansa sat down, reaching back to begin unpinning her hair. “I hope you don’t mind the informality.”

“We aren’t strangers,” Jon said. 

“Aren’t we? Sometimes I wonder.” Sansa began to let her hair down, the small braids that she wore twisted back falling across her shoulders. “Jon, I know that if things were different, I would not be the woman you were marrying. You don’t need to be— _careful_ around me. We can admit that much to each other.” Her voice grew softer. “She _is_ very beautiful.”

Jon watched as Sansa began to untwine her braids, pale fingers slipping through the red locks. “Who is?”

“Daenerys,” Sansa said. “I know I cannot be her, but I will be a good wife.”

“I know,” Jon said after a moment, deciding not to ask what she meant by the comment on Daenerys’s beauty. “But Sansa—I only meant that you should get to choose who you marry, for once.”

“All women ought to be able to choose,” Sansa said, “but that isn’t our fate.” She smiled and reached over to take his hand. “It’s all right, Jon. I said yes. We will find some way to muddle through.”

“I suppose we will.” Jon didn’t know what to say; her hand was cool atop his. “I will leave you to your rest, my lady.”

 

“It’s still Sansa,” Sansa said. “My lord.”

Jon surprised himself by laughing. Sansa’s smile grew wider, and Jon found himself looking at her mouth and thinking, _I would kiss that smile_. He pushed himself up abruptly, startled by the direction of his thoughts. Sansa arched her eyebrows at him, but did not rise, returning to unbraiding her hair. 

“Good night, Sansa,” he said, giving her a brief bow, all comfort and familiarity fleeing him. He reached for the door before looking back at her and saying, “You are very beautiful as well.”

Sansa actually blushed and dropped her gaze. “Thank you, Jon.” She gave a quick look up. “Good night.”

“Yes, good night,” Jon said idiotically, and he fled the room before he could do anything more humiliating.

 

The alliance negotiations began poorly, which was to be expected. As Bran had promised, Howland Reed had sent a raven that was delivered directly to Lord Manderly at the start of the talks. This Manderly read aloud to all, voice growing more incredulous all the while. 

“‘I, Howland of House Reed, do swear that twenty-odd years ago I stood at the Tower of Joy with Eddard Stark while Lyanna Stark breathed her last; and I swear that on that day Lyanna gave birth to a boy she named as Aegon, son of Rhaegar Targaryen. This boy Eddard Stark raised in the Stark household as his own son, calling him Jon Snow so as to protect his life. This I swear by the Old Gods and the New.’ What in the name of the Stranger does this mean?”

By noon, Jon was thoroughly sick of discussing his parentage. Sam had come in with the maester’s book to explain that Jon was trueborn, then a furious discussion on line of succession had ensued, followed with the declaration that they would follow Jon Snow, but not Aegon Targaryen. At this, Jon said that he was still Jon Snow, trueborn or not, and that they had chosen to share this information out of respect. 

More furious discussions ensued from there. The only agreement the could seem to come to was that Jon wasn’t a Stark—not, Jon thought privately, that he had ever been—and therefore had no claim to lead them. 

“Then you are not Lord of Winterfell, nor Warden of the North!” Lord Glover exclaimed. “What authority do you have, then, to lead us?”

“None,” Sansa agreed. “But I am Lady of Winterfell, and I say that Jon Snow proved his loyalty to the North when he won back the seat of my house from the Boltons.” 

This seemed to mollify them a little. “And what of the little dragon queen?” asked one of Warricks. “Are you giving up your claim to the Iron Throne? I’d trust a Targaryen raised by Ned Stark before I’d trust the Mad King’s daughter.”

“Not in the slightest,” Daenerys said. She rose to her feet, hands clasped before her. “My lords and ladies, you have had a great shock and I understand that. I understand, too, your reluctance to trust a Targaryen and would rather place your faith in someone you know. But I am the rightful heir to the Iron Throne. My nephew Jon Snow I name as my heir, so that his children may rule after me, and in him I trust the power of my army, so long as we may come to an equitable agreement. To guarantee the safety of the North, he will marry Lady Sansa, with her name to remain as Stark and all children born after my heir to be Starks of Winterfell.”

The lords shifted at this, all eyes turning to Sansa. Sansa did not stand, instead leaning forward on her elbows. “House Targaryen and House Stark were once powerful allies,” she said. “I have agreed to marry my cousin to once again bring our two houses together for the good of the realm. What remains now is to come to terms over the status of the north once Her Grace is crowned, and the forces the north will send to support her.”

She said it with such firmness that even Jon thought that the matter was settled; but of course it was not. Though the lords seemed to accept that the marriage would happen, they had questions upon questions, from what would happen to the seat of House Bolton to who would supply which troops to Daenerys once she moved against the Lannisters. By the time the day was over, Jon’s head ached and he was so sick of debate that all he wanted to do was go to the training yard and beat the restless energy from his limbs. 

But Davos caught him by the arm when he left the hall and said, “My lord, Lord Reed also sent a message intended for your eyes alone.” He held out a thick roll of paper, still sealed with the sigil of House Reed. 

“Thank you,” Jon said, taking it. He stood there for a moment, unsure what to do, then turned on his heel and went to his chambers. He took his time lighting the candles and setting his cloak down, then sat down on the edge of the bed with the scroll balanced on his fingers. After a moment, he slid his thumb beneath the seal and worked it loose before unrolling it over his knees. 

_Your Grace,_

_It is with undeniable relief that I hear the great secret of my life is at last unveiled. For the last twenty-some years I have worn the truth of the Tower of Joy as a burden, one I shared with only one other. When Ned died, I knew that I would one day have to write this you letter, or else entrust the knowledge to one of my children. It wouldn’t be fair to ask you to go your whole life without knowing your parents’ names, but I also hoped that you’d be spared the burden of your birth for longer._

_I remember the day of your birth as clearly as though it were yesterday. I did not enter the chamber where your mother labored, only waited outside until Ned emerged and told me in no uncertain terms that you were Jon and that you were his son. We both knew the truth; the only woman in that room had been Lyanna Stark, and she had been with Rhaegar Targaryen. But I agreed to the lie, knowing as Ned did that to name you as the son of the Targaryen line would put you in danger from all quarters._

_What you may not know is that you were wanted, and that you were loved. To bear the name of a bastard can be difficult and I am sure being ever known as Ned Stark’s bastard son brought you a fair share of grief. But you were not an accident, nor were there any regrets. The other secret I have carried for years is this: Your parents truly loved each other._

_I am, I believe, the only one to be privy to the whole of the story, and it is a tale I have kept a secret from even my own children out of love for your mother and for Ned Stark. The story most believed—indeed, the story Robert Baratheon propagated—was that Rhaegar Targaryen abducted Lyanna after being taken by her beauty at the tourney at Harrenhal. But there was more to that day; perhaps soon there will be time to tell you the whole of it._

_Though we have never met, I have followed news of you and your deeds. In you I see your mother’s bravery and fierceness, and your father’s strength. But more than anything, I see Ned Stark’s honor and steadfast leadership. It is for that reason, not your parentage, that I pledge House Reed’s men to your campaign against the Night King. I also send Meera, who has fought the White Walkers alongside your cousin Brandon, in hopes she may be of service. They should arrive five days hence, along with what supplies we are able to spare._

_May your endeavors be blessed by the Old Gods and the New._

_Your servant,_  
_Howland Reed_

Jon finished the letter and sat still for a long moment, staring blankly at the wall. He rolled the parchment up mechanically, set the scroll aside, and rose. Ghost, curled up in a corner, lifted his head. 

“Come on, Ghost,” Jon said. “We’re going out.”

He went first to the godswood, but just being there reminded him of when he would go with Ned and Robb, and though he knew he could ride out beyond the walls if he wanted, he also knew someone would be sent after him. So he went instead to the training yard and found himself a practice sword. Ghost circled his legs before settling back against the wall, and Jon took up his stance opposite a training dummy. He did not trust himself against any of the men. 

Jon thought of his father—no, not his father, _Ned_ , Eddard Stark of Winterfell—promising him he would tell Jon who his mother was. He thought of the years he had spent sleeping in a room just barely a step better than the servants’ quarters and eating apart from the family. Of watching greedily while Ned and Catelyn tutored their children, hands and voices gentle. Ned had always been kind, certainly, but there had always been a slight reserve, and Jon could not help but wonder if Ned had spent all those years wondering if the Targaryen madness would rise in Jon’s blood. 

Ned could have told him the truth. Jon was not by nature a gossip; he could have kept that secret, even as a boy. Even from Robb. How much easier might he have slept had he known that his parentage was secret from necessity rather than shame? He could have borne the snide glances, being constantly greeted as “Ned Stark’s bastard” if he’d been able to hold that to himself. 

And Ned could have told him about his mother. Jon’s image of Lyanna was that of her statue in the crypt, a serene girl forever frozen in youth, but he knew that could not be all. Catelyn had made occasional passing comments about Lyanna’s wildness, and Ned said Arya reminded him of her—what a woman she must have been. How in love she must have been, how reckless, to run away with the son of the Mad King. And how selfish. 

Jon adjusted his grip on the hilt of his sword and lunged again at the dummy, imagining in its place the useless Robert Baratheon, who had wasted his reign and had killed Rhaegar. He imagined Rhaegar too, tall and strong with the same silver hair as Daenerys but a sharper smile. _If all of you hadn’t been so selfish_ , he thought, _I’d have had a mother_. 

“Whoa there, ease up,” Davos said, catching Jon’s arm just before he could land the blow. “You’re going to break the damn thing.” 

He hadn’t even heard Davos approaching. When he looked around, he saw that many of the men and servants passing through had stopped to stare at him. Out of the corner of his eye he caught a flash of red, and he turned toward it to see Sansa watching him from the sheltered walkway overlooking the yard. Jon pulled his arm away from Davos and set the practice sword aside. Then he reclaimed his cloak and stalked away, Davos following in his wake. The only place he could think of that might be empty was the crypt, so there he went, stopping before the carved face of Lyanna Stark. His mother. He stood there for a moment, staring at her blank, carved eyes, then stepped over to Ned’s statue. It didn’t look much like him. Jon wasn’t sure if he was displeased about that just now.

“My lord,” Davos said quietly. “It’s all right if you’re upset. You’ve had a hard few days, I think.”

“I’m not upset,” Jon said. 

“If you say so, my lord,” Davos said. 

“I’m angry,” Jon said. He was surprised at the evenness of his voice; it was taking every ounce of control he had not to shout. “How could he never tell me? Eighteen years he had, and never once did he try to tell me except on the last day we saw each other, and even then he only said we would talk about it later. Did he hope I’d spend my entire life in ignorance?”

“I didn’t know Ned Stark except by reputation,” Davos said, “so I can’t say what he was thinking. But he loved you enough to take you into his home and raise you as his own. He could have left you with any number of families, and he didn’t.”

“He did that because it was the _honorable_ thing to do,” Jon said bitterly. “I was family, after all. His honor was too strong.”

“Yes,” Davos said, “but he was willing to let it be tarnished by claiming you as his bastard, all for the sake of his sister.”

“He never suffered for it,” Jon said. “ _I_ did.”

“Suffered very little,” Davos said. “Maybe you were treated different because your name was Snow and not Targaryen. But you were raised by a man who loved you and cared for you and fed you. Many can’t say the same, my lord.” He tucked his hands behind his back, looking uncomfortable. “I don’t mean to scold. You’ve a right to be angry. But I think he did what he thought he could.”

“I was proud to be his son,” Jon said. “Even if I was a bastard, I was proud to be Ned Stark’s son.”

“He was proud to call you his son,” Davos said. “I know it, my lord.”

Jon had to blink fiercely to clear his eyes. He stood there a while longer, staring at Ned’s stone face and thinking of that day so long ago when Ned had promised to tell him about his mother. _I wish I’d heard it from you_ , he thought. _Maybe it wouldn’t feel like this if I’d heard it from you_. 

“Thank you, Davos,” Jon said eventually. He clicked his fingers for Ghost and made his way from the crypt. 

Sansa caught him after dinner to ask him if he was all right. Daenerys, who had been on her way to her rooms, stopped just out of earshot, though she was not subtle about watching them. Sansa’s hand rested on his forearm, just below his elbow. 

“Yes,” Jon said. “I’m fine.”

He slept poorly and woke in a foul mood. He said little through the morning debates over land holdings and whether Daenerys would hold a standing army once she was queen, speaking only when asked a direct question. Sansa made a few attempts to engage him in the discussions, but gave up quickly. Daenerys, for her part, ignored him after his first terse reply. 

He was prepared for another useless day of arguing and grandstanding, already resigned to it, but then, a little after noon, Gendry Waters burst through the doors of the hall and said, “Eastwatch has fallen,” and fell to his knees like a puppet whose strings had been cut.


	7. Chapter 6

Though Sansa had never seen a White Walker herself, she had begun to dream of them soon after snow had started to fall on Winterfell. She was always watching them from above, as if she were a bird. They swarmed like ants across the snowy land below her, and when she flew closer to see, she saw their eyes, bright blue and glowing with unholy light. But they were just dreams, and in the daylight she cast them from her mind as nothing more than fantasy.

The young man, who Jon greeted as Gendry, told a story that rang true with those dreams. He had been at Eastwatch when they had seen the dead emerge from the trees. Huge in number, unrelenting as they pushed forward. They had run to sound the horn; and then from above they’d heard a horrible sound and the flap of heavy wings as a dragon, as large as a ship, bore down upon them and breathed out a torrent of blue flame that had taken the Wall with it. Sansa closed her eyes tightly, imagining the moment of fear just before the earth had dropped out from below those men’s feet. When she opened her eyes again, the room was in chaos, people shouting over each other. Little Lady Karstark was weeping quietly. 

Sansa stood and called to mind her mother’s commanding presence before she said loudly, “Silence! Silence, all of you. We accomplish nothing with panic.”

Lyanna Mormont took up her words, echoing them down the room until eventually they took their seats again, though they were tenser than ever. Gendry had been taken from the room by Ser Davos, and without him there the fear was less immediate; but it was palpable in 

“There’s no more time to waste,” Daenerys said. She had grown paler and paler as Gendry recounted his tale, her hands clenching into fists at the description of the undead dragon. “We must come to an agreement tonight and join our houses so we may march north at once. My lords, do you agree?”

“Yes,” Lord Manderley said. The big man looked as shaken as Sansa felt, and she wondered if he too had never quite felt the reality of Jon’s stories until now. She had never doubted him, but there was something about the panic in Gendry’s voice that raised her pulse and made her fear more than ever. “Let us draft a formal agreement.”

“I will call for the maester,” Sansa said, keeping her voice as calm as she could. Jon was pale as the snow of his name, his hands clenched on the arms of his chair. “There is no time to waste; we will be wed tonight.”

She set her hand on Jon’s and suppressed a wince when he flinched at her touch. But after a moment he turned his hand palm up and laced their fingers together in a brutally tight grip. She held on just as tightly. 

The alliance was made; the papers were signed. Sansa bade all in attendance to speak to their men before the ceremony and spoke to the steward to ensure that some of their reserves of food and ale were open to all. Weddings were, she knew—despite her personal experience with them—a welcomed and much-loved event, a time for tensions to ease. Let them have their night of merriment before they had to throw themselves into battle. 

By the time she was finally able to retire to her quarters to ready herself, it was late afternoon and she was exhausted already. But there would be celebration and good cheer and, she hoped, goodwill toward the new alliance borne by the occasion. Sansa took out the dress she had been embroidering ever since Daenerys had asked her to wed Jon and was considering asking if Mira Forester might be willing to attend to her hair when there was a quiet knock at the door. 

“Lady Sansa? It’s me,” came Daenerys’s voice. “May I come in?”

“Certainly,” Sansa said, setting the dress aside. The door open and Daenerys came in, followed by her tall and elegant handmaid. Daenerys was wearing a gown of deep grey, edged with white fur, and looked more queenly than ever. Sansa rose and curtsied deeply. When she straightened, Daenerys was smiling at her. 

“Sansa,” Daenerys said. “I thought I would lend you Missandei so she might dress your hair.” Missandei smiled and gave a small bow, her hands clasped together. 

“Thank you,” Sansa said to them both. “Missandei, is it?”

“Yes, my lady,” Missandei said. 

“I’m sorry we have not had much opportunity to speak before now. I would be honored to be attended by you.” Sansa looked at the dress lying upon the bed. “I hope you will not mind if finish my work on this?”

“Your wedding dress?” Daenerys asked. When Sansa nodded, she asked, “May I?” and bent over to look. Sansa had repurposed a gown long-ago sewn for her mother, which had required some work as Sansa was quite a bit taller than Catelyn had been. It was a fine violet silk, heavy enough to withstand the cold of the north; Sansa couldn’t recall her mother ever having worn it, but the Tully fish embroidered along the collar had been enough to identify it. She had added to it, incorporating both the direwolf of House Stark and the three-headed dragon of the Targaryens. The last dragon was unfinished still; she hoped she had enough time to complete it. 

“I never learned to embroider,” Daenerys said, her fingers alighting upon the raised thread. “It was not considered of great importance for a girl in my circumstances, given the expense.”

“I’ve always liked it,” Sansa said. “Arya thinks it’s just because it’s a proper lady thing to do, and I suppose that’s why I tried when I was younger. But it’s restful. And I like making things.” 

“It’s beautiful,” Daenerys said. “Come, sit on a chair near the light.”

Sansa sat with the dress spread across her lap while Daenerys perched on the bed. Missandei began taking Sansa’s hair down, her fingers gentle and practiced, as Daenerys watched. Sansa looked at the embroidery rather than meeting Daenerys’s eyes. She could not help but think that later that night, Jon would be where Daenerys sat now. These were the chambers of the Lord and Lady of Winterfell; and that was who they would be.

“How would you like me to dress your hair, my lady?” Missandei asked, hands stilling against Sansa’s neck. 

“Something like Her Grace,” Sansa said after a moment. “Perhaps not as elaborate.”

Daenerys laughed at that. “You do have lovely hair,” she said, a surprising note of envy in her voice. “Not many people have hair that color across the sea.”

“It isn’t all that common here, either,” Sansa said. “Red hair is a Tully trait.”

“Your mother’s family?” Sansa gave a tiny nod of agreement. “I’m sorry she cannot be with you tonight.”

“It isn’t my first wedding, Your Grace,” Sansa said, turning her gaze back to her embroidery. “I know what happens on woman’s wedding night.” 

“Still.” Daenerys was quiet for a while as Missandei plaited Sansa’s hair. Then she said, “The night before I married, I had no one to sit with me. I had my brother, but he didn’t care to sit at my side. I had some idea of what to expect, but—I would have liked someone with me.”

“Oh, I—thank you, Your Grace.” Sansa pushed her needle through the fabric with difficulty; the layered thread was becoming too thick to easily penetrate. “In truth, I am still—when I was young I used to find the bedding ceremony rather thrilling, but that was because everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves. It wasn’t ever, I mean, neither of my weddings had that. And I’m grateful—”

“I beg your pardon,” Daenerys said, “but—bedding ceremony?”

“Oh, do they not do that in Essos?” At Daenerys’s headshake, Sansa explained, “After the wedding and the feast, the bride and groom are carried off by members of the other sex and stripped before being left in their room while the others stand outside to cheer them on until the, the consummation.” 

“That’s dreadful,” Daenerys said after a moment of shocked silence. “And you witnessed this as a child?”

“Yes, it wasn’t considered anything amiss,” Sansa said. “I suppose tonight will be my first as participant.”

“No,” Daenerys said. “I don’t intend to start my rule by having my heir and his lady wife humiliated in such a way. A wedding night ought to be special. _Private_.”

“But to confirm consummation—”

“If they insist you must be escorted to your rooms to ensure it, then _I_ will accompany you. It is, after all, my heir that will be your issue.” Daenerys shook her head. “And they say the Dothraki are barbaric! Every culture the world over is the same when it comes to women.”

“There are some, Your Grace, that honor their women,” Missandei said. “Dorne, for example.”

“Not nearly enough.” Daenerys leaned forward, bracing her elbows on her knees. “Sansa, you must tell me truly: are you prepared for this?”

Sansa took a breath to steady herself. “I think so, Your Grace. As I said, I have been married before.”

“But never to someone you liked,” Daenerys said. “And that isn’t what I meant. You will have to lay with Jon, more than once. You have not, I think, had lovers since you returned to Winterfell.”

“No,” Sansa said quietly. 

“It _can_ be pleasurable,” Daenerys said. “But if you’re afraid, it is much harder to enjoy yourself.”

“I’m not afraid,” Sansa said. “Not of Jon, anyway.”

“What are you afraid of?”

Sansa gazed down at the dress over her lap where the dragon twined with the direwolf, heat rising to her cheeks. “I don’t know what to do with a man.”

There was a whisper of fabric and a moment later Daenerys laid her hand over Sansa’s. “Leave us, Missandei. Thank you.” Once the door had shut, Daenerys knelt, raising her other hand to tilt up Sansa’s chin. “It is nothing to be ashamed of.”

“I was only ever—”

“You don’t need to explain yourself.” This close, Daenerys’s eyes seemed impossibly huge, and impossibly blue. “I had to be taught as well.”

“Yes?” Sansa’s heart was beating quickly; Daenerys’s hand was cool against her skin. “What is it that I should know?”

“You need not lie there,” Daenerys said. “It is easier if you are on top, especially if you are frightened. You can control it then, and men like it more than you might suppose.”

“On top?” Sansa asked faintly. “I don’t understand.”

“Like this.” Daenerys stood and mimed putting her knees on either side of Sansa’s. “You sit astride him.”

“Like a horse.”

“Yes, very like.” Daenerys was half-laughing now, the skin at the corner of her eyes wrinkling. “And then you move your hips, like this.” She lifted Sansa’s hands and placed them on her hips, which she moved back and forth in a sinuous fashion Sansa was sure she could never replicate. “I am not explaining as well as my teacher did.”

“I appreciate the attempt.” Sansa dropped her hands from Daenerys’s hips. Her face felt as though she had been sitting too long in front of the fire. “I may not be a good student.”

“You are a perfectly fine student.” Daenerys stepped back. “Do not worry too much. You won’t be alone, after all.”

Sansa covered her face with her hands. “How can you do this?” she asked. “You love him.”

“I do.”

“Are you jealous?”

“Wildly,” Daenerys said. When Sansa dropped her hands, Daenerys was still smiling, though it seemed sad now. “And no.”

“How can it be both?”

“I don’t know,” Daenerys said. “That part I haven’t figured out. But I know I am sad I can’t marry Jon, and that I’m also not in the least angry with you. How could I? I asked you to do this.”

“That’s hardly stopped people before.” 

“True.” Daenerys gazed down at Sansa, smile slowly fading into a speculative look. “Have you kissed very many people, Sansa?”

“Not very many.”

“How many of them did you want to kiss?”

“One,” Sansa said. “Though I didn’t want to kiss him for long.”

Daenerys raised her hand as if to touch Sansa’s cheek, then stepped back abruptly. “Missandei ought to finish your hair,” she said. “Missandei!” 

The door opened again and Missandei returned, her gentle hands settling at Sansa’s neck. Daenerys turned away from them to go to the window, but Sansa thought she saw the start of a flush rising in those pale cheeks. Confused and still prickling with a sense of waiting for— _something_ —Sansa returned to her embroidery and didn’t look up again until she had finished. 

 

Evening had fallen by the time Sansa was brought to the godswood for her third wedding. Many of the northern lords had come to witness the ceremony, and to her surprise there were Dothraki and Unsullied in attendance as well, though she supposed that they had as much an invested interest as anyone else. Arya was decidedly unimpressed with the marriage agreement, but had not raised much of a fuss after Jon had said flatly that it would happen if she approved or not. Bran, for his part, seemed entirely unaware of the strangeness of the situation and did little more than accept Sansa’s hand for a brief clasp of greeting. 

Of all her weddings, this one was the most hurried. They had not thought to who would lead Sansa to her husband, so Arya stood in their father’s place, standing perfectly straight as Sansa placed her hand on her arm. When she reached Jon, they realized at the same time that he did not have a Targaryen cloak to drape over her shoulders, so instead he took off his great furred cloak and covered her in that. As the heavy fabric settled around her, she met his eyes for the first time since she had arrived in the godswood. He smiled at her tentatively. She returned it, equally hesitant, and placed her hand atop his so their hands could be bound together.

She said the required words by rote, hardly registering them until she repeated, “I am his and he is mine,” and thought, _I am Jon’s wife_. It was such a strange thought that she stumbled over her next line. She surprised herself by laughing, and after a moment Jon laughed too, hand flexing beneath hers. “From this day,” she said, clearly this time, looking into Jon’s eyes as they spoke together, “until the end of my days. This I swear by the old gods and the new.”

Jon hesitated a moment before leaning forward and pressing a chaste, brief kiss to Sansa’s mouth. His beard pricked at her skin, not unpleasantly, and his mouth was hot against hers. When he withdrew, Sansa found herself staring as he licked his lips. She would, she realized, like to kiss him again.

“The Lord and Lady of Winterfell!” the maester pronounced and like that, they were wed. 

 

Sansa did not take in much of the celebration that followed. Though the evening was merry, under the good cheer and well-wishes was the knowledge that soon this newly combined force would be marching to face an ancient enemy out of myth. And that would not even be the end of it; there was still a war to fight and a throne to win, and Sansa suspected that the marriage reinforced that realization among the northerners. 

For their part, Daenerys’s people seemed cheerful. They spoke mostly in their own languages, and Missandei translated some of it, though sometimes she would shake her head and said, “You would not want to know, my lady,” while Daenerys looked half-exasperated, half-fond. Sansa was surprised to receive gifts from Daenerys’s people—a beautiful bolt of silk from Volantis, and a horse to call her own. 

“You are wed to my heir,” Daenerys said when Sansa asked why they had honored her. “You are strange to them, but they understand that much.”

When it came time for Sansa and Jon to retire, Daenerys rose with them, saying she would escort them to their marriage bed and no other to silence the disappointed murmurs of the guests. Sansa tucked her hand into the crook of Jon’s arm and gave him a small smile. 

“You told her of the bedding ceremony?” Jon asked. 

“Yes,” Sansa said. “She was not enamored of the concept.”

“No,” Jon said, “she wouldn’t be. Neither am I.” He smiled at her and patted her hand. “Let us retire, my lady.”

None of them spoke on the way. Daenerys walked just ahead of them, never looking back. She held herself perfectly straight but no sign of tension in her save for the quickness of her step. When they reached the door to Sansa’s chambers—now hers and Jon’s, she supposed—Daenerys turned to them and gave Sansa a formal kiss on each cheek. 

“My warmest wishes,” Daenerys said quietly. Her hand lingered on Sansa’s cheek for a moment longer before she turned to Jon. Sansa held her breath as they stared at each other, unsure if she ought to say something to ease the strangeness of this. Daenerys finally cupped Jon’s cheek lightly and said, “Be good to her.” Then she opened the door and, once they had stepped over the threshold, closed it behind them with a gentle but final thud. 

The fire was lit. Sansa went to it, not yet ready to face the necessity of the marriage bed. She held her hands out to the flames and stared into them until her vision began to blur. 

From behind her, Jon said, “We don’t have to do this.”

“Yes we do,” Sansa said without turning around. 

“The alliance is made,” Jon said. “What does it matter if the marriage is consummated?”

“It matters because Daenerys needs an heir,” Sansa said. She rubbed her hands together, then rubbed her palms against her dress. “You are marching into battle soon, Jon. What if you do not return?”

“There is no guarantee of a child,” Jon said. 

“No,” Sansa agreed, “but there is a better chance of one if we actually do lay together.” She turned and saw that Jon was shifting uncomfortably. “Do—do you not want to?” 

“That isn’t,” Jon started, then he shook his head. “This isn’t about what I want.”

“I know you aren’t attracted to me in that way,” Sansa said carefully. She wondered if Daenerys was still standing outside. “Would it be better if she were in here? If it is easier—”

“ _No_ ,” Jon said. “No, Sansa.”

“It was just a suggestion,” Sansa said.

“She shouldn’t have to—and besides, you’re wrong. You are, um.” Jon flushed suddenly, gaze dropping to his feet. “You’re very beautiful, Sansa.”

“Oh,” Sansa said, idiotically. 

“But you have not—you deserve better,” Jon said. “You deserve someone you love.”

Sansa approached him slowly, as she would a startled horse, and lay her fingers against his jaw. “I do love you,” she said. “Not in the way you love her, perhaps, but—you saved me. You saved Winterfell. There are so few people in this world I trust, Jon, but I trust you.”

Jon looked up, and Sansa was startled by his anguished expression. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t,” Sansa said. “Kiss me again?”

Jon glanced toward her mouth, then back to check if she were serious. Then he leaned in, placing one hand on her waist, and kissed her softly, tongue just grazing her lips. Sansa sighed and yielded to him, letting Jon pull her closer as she slid her arm around his neck. She was slightly taller than him, which was strange, but he was so strong, so solid; she could feel the strength of him even through his clothes. Though his kisses were gentle, there an undeniable heat to them, an indefinable urgency to how he spread his fingers along her back. 

They undressed each other slowly between kisses, his hands at the laces of her dress, then at her breast—and oh! She had not realized that would feel so wonderful, to have his thumb graze her nipple so gently. He kissed her neck, her collar, and she shyly returned them when she reached for his shirt. He was dreadfully scarred, but she had expected that, and she traced each one with her fingers and then with her lips until he was shaking. _I did that_ , she thought, and she was pleased. 

When her dress and smallclothes were gone, she flushed and tried to shield herself from Jon’s eyes, feeling unbearably vulnerable in her nakedness. Jon kissed her forehead, then dropped to his knees before her—he still had his boots and trousers, which was strangely exhilarating—and placed his hands on her hips. 

“Relax,” he said, smiling up at her. “You’ll like this.” Before she could ask what he meant, he had leaned in and pressed his mouth to her mound. 

Sansa cried out in surprise. His mouth was warm, and his tongue—his _lips_!—were there, between her folds, and then— “ _Oh_ ,” she sighed, and she dropped her hands to rest in his hair. 

This was something no one had told her about, not Margaery, not her mother, not Cersei. That it could be wonderful like this, just _pleasure_. That it would build inside her like this, each touch sending her into a new world of sensation until she was crying out helplessly, trying to muffle herself and failing, and then it crashed down on her, shockwaving through her body as her legs shook and wobbled beneath her, vision going dim for a moment before she regained control of herself. Jon sat back on his haunches, smiling with a hint of smugness. Sansa said, “You were right,” and began to laugh. 

No one had told her that sex could be joyful. That she could find Jon’s ticklish spots and tease him as he undressed. That there could be laughter as they stumbled over abandoned clothing. That she would feel her breath go out of her in amazement when Jon lay back on the bed, bared before her. She stared at him for what felt like a very long time, gaze raking from his head to the hard jut of his cock to the strong curve of his calves. She placed her hands on his thighs, kneeling on the bed, and said, “I don’t know what I’m doing,” before doing what Daenerys had taught her and settling her knees on either side of his hips. 

Jon stopped breathing. Sansa, mildly alarmed, placed a hand to his chest. “Jon?” she asked.

Jon breathed in loudly. “You—you look very beautiful,” he said. His hands brushed her knees. “Do you want me to—?”

“No,” Sansa said. She reached down to take his cock in her hand. It was hot, hard yet yielding beneath her touch. She stroked her thumb curiously over the curved head and watched in fascination as Jon’s eyes closed and he arched up with a groan. Carefully, she guided him to her entrance and paused, gulping, when the tip grazed her wet folds. Her heart was beating so fast she felt like she might faint. Jon’s eyes opened and met hers. Sansa bit her lip and lowered herself upon him. 

It was harder than she thought; she had to take a moment to breathe carefully before allowing her full weight to settle. But when she did, she gasped involuntarily at the sharp shudder of pleasure that went through her. She moved, and it sparked again, shaking her from the inside out. Jon moaned. 

“Is it bad?” she asked anxiously.

“Not at all,” Jon said, voice strained. “Are you all right?”

“Yes,” Sansa said. She recalled the way Daenerys’s hips had moved and tried to replicate it, rocking back onto Jon. They gasped in unison, and Sansa did it again. Jon’s hands came to rest on her waist, helping support her, and she experimented with lifting herself on her knees, then sinking back down and oh, that was even nicer. Her eyes had drifted closed without her consciously realizing, and she forced them open as she began to move with greater purpose. Jon was staring up at her with an amazed expression, mouth slack, and Sansa smiled. Abruptly, Jon pushed himself up onto his elbow and wrapped an arm around her waist and began to move with her, driving himself deeper. Sansa cried out and pushed into it. 

Was Daenerys outside, the way she would be if there had been a true bedding ceremony? Was she listening for the sounds of their consummation to confirm the marriage was real? Sansa clenched at the idea of it, and Jon groaned, grip on her waist tightening as he thrust into her. 

She wanted Daenerys to be listening, she realized. Not out of malice or spite, or even out of jealousy, but because Sansa wanted her to know that she had been right, that Jon was treating her well. She wanted Daenerys to know and to be part of it in some way, the way she deserved to be. Sansa dropped her head to kiss Jon and moved her hands to her shoulders as she rode out the rising tide of her increasing need for release, breaths now coming out in sharp gasps every time Jon fucked into her, and then Jon was rolling them over, hand going between them as he lifted her legs about his hips and his thumb was pressing against the place where they joined and Sansa was crying out, trembling, and as she did she felt Jon’s release inside her, his cock thrusting into her unsteadily as he came. 

Jon kissed her, more frantically than before, and she kissed back, clinging to him as he softened and finally withdrew. He leaned over her, hair falling loose about his face, and gazed at her anxiously. 

“Gods,” Sansa said faintly. “Is it always like that?” 

Jon laughed and kissed her again. 

Later, when they had washed themselves and dressed for bed, Sansa lay awake as Jon slept beside her and thought of Daenerys; thought of how she had felt in King’s Landing watching people she thought she loved be given to others. What it must have been like to have Jon for a moment, only to have him ripped away. She could not understand why she had thought in the moment that Daenerys ought to be there. It was a cruel thought, but she knew she hadn’t meant it so. But why she had thought it—how she had meant it—even she couldn’t say. 

 

She saw little of Jon over the next few days. He spent his time training the men, examining the supplies, and pouring over maps. Neither did she see Daenerys, save for a brief moment the morning after the wedding when Daenerys had asked if she was well before leaving to speak to her army. Sansa would have minded more if she herself had not been impossibly busy organizing rooms and food for those who would remain at Winterfell, and speaking with Jaime Lannister about his plans to suborn the Lannister men from his sister’s control. And of course, there was Arya.

They met in the crypt during the early morning hours when they were least likely to be needed elsewhere. Arya had taken on managing the small force that would remain at Winterfell once the army moved out, as well as supervising the work of the blacksmiths and armorers who were frantically trying to keep up with demand. But they both knew that Arya must go south; it was only the method they disagreed on.

“I’m going alone,” Arya said firmly for the fourth time. “It’s far safer that way.”

“A lone traveler is far more noticeable than two,” Sansa argued. “Take a guard. Brienne, perhaps.”

“Lady Brienne is an excellent fighter, but hardly subtle,” Arya said. “Besides, I want her here with you.”

“Arya—”

“I’ll be fine on my own,” Arya said. “I got here all right, didn’t I?” She smiled crookedly. “And it will be easier for me to get into the Red Keep if I’m alone.”

“I suppose so,” Sansa said. “It is of vital importance that you do not make your move too soon. If we show our hand before we are ready—”

“Cersei will know something is wrong, yes, I know.” Arya leaned against the wall, her arms crossed. “I _have_ thought about this too, you know.”

Sansa ignored her. “If you can, make contact with Theon and help Yara escape, but only if it won’t compromise your position. Same with Ellaria Sand. If we are able to rescue them and bring any of their remaining resources to us, our army may stand a chance once they return from the north. You need to watch Cersei and, if possible, sever her from the mercenaries she’s hired.”

“I have some ideas,” Arya said. “I won’t be able to make a plan until I’m there, though.”

“You’ll need to write once a week so I know you’re alive,” Sansa said. “You can do that, can’t you?”

“Can’t we have Bran do his—” Arya wiggled her fingers in front of her face. “You know.”

“I suppose,” Sansa said after a moment. “But I’d like to hear from you.”

“Very well, I’ll send a raven when I can.” Arya’s hand drifted to the hilt of her slim sword. “It will be difficult being that close to Cersei and not slitting her throat where she stands.”

“You cannot kill her outright,” Sansa said. “We promised Jaime Lannister the child would live, but more than that, she must be seen to surrender the throne to Daenerys or else she will always be seen as a martyr. If you kill her before they arrive at King’s Landing, any number of people may try to take the throne, and we cannot have five new kings vying for the crown.”

“I understand,” Arya said. “I would very much like to kill her, though.”

“I know,” Sansa said. “I would like to be there when you do.”

To her surprise, Arya reached out and actually took Sansa’s hand in a brief, reassuring clasp. “She will suffer for what she has done to our family,” she said fiercely. “To Father and to you.”

In her mind’s eye, Sansa saw again the greatsword fall upon her father’s neck. “Yes,” she said. “She will.”

Arya squeezed her hand, then pushed away from the wall. Sansa turned away to look at their father’s statue. She did not hear Arya leave, but when she glanced around a moment later, her sister was gone.

 

She did see Jon in the evenings when they both retired to their bed. They made love each time, partially out of desire and, she knew, partially out of duty. It was not that they did not enjoy themselves, but there was a silent acknowledgement that it would be best if Sansa were with child by the time Jon left. So Sansa let herself sink into Jon’s embrace each night, embarrassed by how much she enjoyed their love-making and pleased by how Jon seemed to enjoy it too. She still thought often of Daenerys, who she only saw in passing, and ached with sympathetic sorrow when she imagined how the young queen must feel to see her former lover married to someone else.

Jon announced that they would march north a week after the wedding, with a small force to remain behind at Winterfell to guard Sansa and the Lannisters. Davos would stay, as would Missandei. Sansa could tell the handmaiden was not pleased by this, but she did not say as much, only nodding deferentially when Daenerys gave her orders. Sansa, for her part, was glad that Brienne as well as the Mormont soldiers would remain behind, but she could not shake the uneasiness that followed her. She caught Jon later that day when he was exiting the training yard, stopping him with a hand on his chest. 

“My lady,” he said, drawing up short.”

“My lord.” She dipped her head. “Will you teach me how to protect myself?”

“Protect yourself?”

“Yes.” Sansa gestured to the practice swords behind him. “Just a little, so I am not defenseless.”

“Sansa, you’ll be safe here,” Jon said. “There’s no need for that.”

“You don’t know that,” Sansa said calmly. “I don’t wish to die on my knees begging for mercy. There are many times I would have been glad to know how to use a knife.”

“Arya can teach you,” Jon suggested.

“I’m asking you.” Sansa dropped her hand to lace her fingers with his. “Please, Jon.”

“I suppose I can,” Jon allowed, “but the fighting I know is what is used on the battlefield.”

“Then teach me what you can,” Sansa said. She followed him into the yard and took the wooden sword that he passed to her. It was surprisingly heavy, and she grunted as she adjusted her grip to hold it.

“You know the basics, don’t you?” he asked. When she raised her eyebrows, he laughed and said, “Stick ‘em with the pointy end.”

Sansa would never be a great swordswoman, but by the time Jon’s departure arrived she could at least hold a sword and a dagger, as well as passably disarm someone coming at her. She took to wearing the catspaw blade at her waist, feeling that her family had earned it from Baelish when he had sent it to kill Bran. The dagger was sharp enough to split a hair, and when Jon looked at it he nodded with approval and said that Valyrian steel would be good against any wights that might make it this far south. 

“Do you think they will?” she asked. 

“I hope not,” Jon said grimly. “But burn your dead, if you have any, and stay watchful for their eyes. Their eyes are always blue.”

That night Sansa dreamed of Jon, blue-eyed and cold, coming toward her with a blade. She woke in a panic, thrashing against the heavy blankets until Jon had placed his hand on her shoulder, whispering her name. Sansa clung to him, wanting desperately to weep but knowing that if she allowed herself to she wouldn’t be able to stop. 

“You’d better come home,” she said. He stroked her hair and said, “I will.”

 

The morning of the army’s march arrived clear and cold. The clouds were gone, but snow lay thick upon the ground and there was a sharp wind that cut through even the thickest of cloth. Sansa slept very little and rose before dawn, haunting the halls with restless pacing. She found herself at the door to Daenerys’s chambers as the rest of the castle was beginning to rouse and listened for a moment before knocking gently. 

“It’s Sansa,” she said. “May I come in?”

“Yes,” Daenerys called. “Please do.”

Sansa pushed the door open and found Daenerys standing before a small bag, packing away what looked like further clothes for the journey. Daenerys’s hair was bound back in a practical braid, her clothes the most utilitarian Sansa had seen. She had known that Daenerys meant to go with them, but seeing her packed and dressed for travel was different from being told Daenerys would be going. Sansa swallowed and forced a smile. 

“I hope you have everything you need for the journey,” she said. “If there’s anything, please let me know.”

“I am quite well-supplied, thank you,” Daenerys said. “You’ve been a most gracious host to me and my people. Thank you, Lady Stark.”

“Am I no longer Sansa?” Sansa asked quietly. 

Daenerys turned around, eyes wide. “Oh—of course you are!”

“I was afraid that you regretted—” Sansa bit her lip. “Forget it.”

“No,” Daenerys said. “That is to say, yes, but only for myself. Selfishness. I’ve grown spoiled, being queen.” She favored Sansa with a smile. “I’m glad for you and Jon, truly. It seems as though it will be a happy marriage.”

“I hope so,” Sansa said. She watched as Daenerys returned to her bag and chewed at the inside of her lip. Finally, she burst out, “Must you go with them?”

“I must,” Daenerys said, setting aside her belongings and looking back at Sansa. “They will need my dragons. Fire kills the dead better than anything, and I am the only one who can command them.” Her smile now did not quite reach her eyes. “I will be fine.”

“Your Grace,” Sansa said helplessly. She could not speak to what she felt, only that her chest hurt in the same way it had when she had learned Margaery was dead. “We cannot lose you.” She breathed in deeply to steady herself, but still her voice broke when she said, “ _I_ cannot lose you.”

“Sansa—!” Daenerys reached for her, eyes widening in alarm. “Don’t cry, please.”

“I had stopped believing there was anyone truly worthy who wanted the throne,” Sansa said, allowing Daenerys to take her hands. “One, perhaps—but Cersei killed her. I always thought we could do better, but everyone who has tried has been cruel or foolish or greedy, and you—I believe you could be a good queen. We so desperately _need_ a queen who cares about her people, and here you are, ready to throw yourself into battle for their sake.”

“Any ruler ought to be willing to die for their people,” Daenerys said quietly. “I have thought of little apart from reclaiming the throne since my brother died, but this threatens the whole world, and that is more important.”

“That is why you are a greater ruler, and a better woman, than Cersei could ever dream,” Sansa said fiercely. She kissed Daenerys’s hand, then dropped to her knees, bowing her head. “Were I able, I would follow you into battle, my queen.”

“You would be fierce,” Daenerys said. “I know it.” She leaned down and pressed a chaste kiss to her mouth. “Oh Sansa,” she said. She looked as if she wanted to say more, but instead she shook her head and withdrew. “I will return. I promise.” Then she smiled suddenly and said, a hint of mischief in her voice, “You should come meet my dragons.”

 

Sansa rode out with Jon and Daenerys to where the two great dragons made their beds, vast as hills. They stirred at their approach, eyes blinking open curiously. Daenerys dismounted some distance away and made the rest of the way on foot, one hand outstretched. The larger of the two dragons bent its neck when she was near and allowed her to climb atop its back. Daenerys stroked it fondly and called, “Jon, they will not hurt you. You’re a Targaryen.”

“How can you be sure?” Jon shouted back. 

“Fire cannot burn the dragon,” Daenerys said. “Closer.” She said something in Valyrian to the other dragon, who came up onto its haunches and eyed Jon warily. It did not move as Jon walked toward it, except to breathe, its huge chest rising and falling. When Jon was close, the dragon stooped its neck until it was eyelevel with Jon’s face. 

Sansa held her breath as Jon reached a hand out to rest gently between the dragon’s great eyes. For a moment Jon stood frozen, clearly terrified, but then the dragon closed its eyes and did not make a move to snap his jaws or breathe out fire. Jon breathed out loud enough for Sansa to hear. 

“See?” Daenerys called. “He knows you are of my blood.” She stroked the crest of the dragon she sat astride. Daenerys spoke again in Valyrian, and before Sansa’s eyes the two dragons rose in a huge rush of wind, sending Jon stumbling back. Daenerys took off into the sky, the two dragons huge shadows against the winter sun. Sansa hurried to Jon’s side, taking his arm when his knees started to buckle. 

“I will never get used to them,” he said faintly. “Not in a hundred years.”

“They truly are amazing,” Sansa said, watching the swooping arcs of the dragons’ flight. “I’m beginning to think you may have a chance after all.”

“They have one as well,” Jon reminded her. “And we have no idea what the Night King did to it.”

“Still.” Sansa led Jon back to their horses. “You will come back, won’t you?” She tried to smile. “Promise me you’ll come back. I have no wish to find another husband.”

“I have no wish for you to find one either,” Jon said. He slid his hand into her hair and kissed her fiercely. “Guard Winterfell, Lady Stark,” he said when he pulled back. He rested his forehead against hers. “Keep it safe for us and our children.”

“Keep our queen safe,” Sansa said. They both looked to the distant figure of Daenerys and her dragon. “Or as safe as she’ll let you keep her.”

“Very fair,” Jon remarked wryly. Sansa laughed and allowed Jon to help her mount her Dothraki horse. Together, along with Daenerys’s mount, they rode back to Winterfell where the sprawling army stood waiting for Jon’s command to march north. Sansa watched Daenerys above them as they rode, and for the first time in a very long time felt something like hope.


	8. Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- the chapter count is actually final now, and the rest of the fic is at least outlined  
> \- I had a dream where the plot twist in season 8 was ANOTHER mysterious missing targaryen showed up and was a third in the love triangle between Daenerys and Jon  
> \- I am not using that as inspiration

When Arya was a child, she wished to be a knight. She drank in the stories of Queen Nymeria, of Visenya and Rhaenys and their dragons, of the women of Bear Island, and trained where she would not be caught. She learned to shoot a bow, to run, to ride, to swim, all in the hopes of one day donning armor and riding out alongside her brothers. 

The day Joffrey killed her father, she knew she would never be a knight. Knights had rules and duties. That wouldn’t do, not when Arya’s life had narrowed to the single purpose of revenge. 

Every night she said their names: Joffrey. Cersei. Walder Frey. Meryn Trant. Tywin Lannister. The Mountain. The Red Woman. Beric Dondarrion. Thoros of Myr. Ilyn Payne. Polliver. The Hound. Littlefinger. One by one, she had removed their names, either by their deaths or her pardon. Only two remained now, and both were within the walls of King’s Landing. 

Her fingers itched to wrap around Needle’s hilt and drive it between Cersei’s eyes, but she had promised Sansa she would wait, and she saw the merit in her reasoning. She didn’t like it, but Cersei’s time would come, and when it did Arya would have her begging for mercy.

Arya’s mission was ostensibly a secret, though all of Jon and Daenerys’s inner circle knew what she was sent to do. Lord Tyrion had provided her with details of the layout of the palace, his brother the habits and status of the city’s watch. From Ser Davos she had the names of trusted contacts and gold to use as bribes along the way. Jon, before he had left, had given her a new dagger to match Needle. 

“Gendry made it,” he told her when she unsheathed it. “He said you know him?”

“I did,” Arya said, watching the light glint off the sharp edge. “A long time ago.”

Jon, wisely, did not ask for clarification. Arya knew Gendry was at Winterfell; she could hardly have failed to notice when it was his arrival that had spurred the hurried wedding of her sister and her once-brother and the assembling of the northern army. She had thought perhaps she would seek him out, but then she had remembered the last time she had seen him in that dank cavern, when she had begged him to stay and he had refused. 

She was no longer that girl. She avoided the forge where she knew he had been put to work and instead buried herself in the information from the Lannister brothers to prepare for her journey south. She was glad to know he was alive; but that was all she needed. 

Arya set out for King’s Landing alone the morning after Jon’s army marched north. Only Sansa came to say farewell, wearing a heavy cloak with the hood pulled over distinctive hair so as to not draw attention to them. Her eyes were suspiciously red, and her hair was in a simple plait rather than the more elaborate styles she had been wearing, though Arya doubted it was _her_ departure that had upset Sansa.

“Lady Stark,” Arya said. 

“Arya,” Sansa said. She hesitated, then pulled Arya into an embrace. “Please stay safe. I can’t bury another family member.”

Arya stood stiff in surprise before hesitantly wrapping her arms around her sister’s waist. “I didn’t know you cared.”

“Of course I care, you idiot.” Sansa stepped back and dashed a tear from her cheek. “I love you, no matter how strange you are.”

Arya’s chest tightened. “Sansa, I—you know I love you.”

“I do.” Sansa kissed Arya’s forehead and smiled faintly. “I will see you when winter ends.”

“When winter ends,” Arya echoed. They embraced again, Arya inhaling the rosemary and lemon smell of Sansa’s hair, dedicating it to memory. Then she mounted her horse and turned them south. She took a breath of crisp air, the cold burn of it crackling in her lungs, and spurred her horse to a canter. 

She had ridden maybe half a mile when she heard the pounding of galloping hooves behind her. Arya drew up sharply, glancing over her shoulder to see who it was, and saw a large figure on a horse barreling toward her. Her hand went to Needle, but then the rider lifted his head and she saw his face. 

“What are you doing?” Arya demanded as Gendry drew even with her horse. His mount was sweating, breathing out steam into the morning air. Gendry looked as though he had just tumbled from bed, his hair a mess and jerkin half unlaced. To her irritation, she saw that he had travel packs with him as well; he had not done this on a whim.

“I’m coming with you,” Gendry said, in a tone of _isn’t that obvious_.

“You don’t even know where I’m going,” Arya said, turning forward and nudging her horse back to a walk. 

“You’re going to kill the queen,” Gendry said. He spurred his horse to keep pace with her. “I want to help.”

“I don’t need your help,” Arya said. She felt like she was twelve years old again, trying to convince Gendry she was a boy. “And how did you know?”

“I traveled with you for a year,” Gendry pointed out. “You think I didn’t hear you at night? Every night you’d say her name on that list of yours. You want her dead. Well, so do I. She tried to kill me.”

“I meant how did you know I was leaving?” Arya clenched her hands on the reigns, then forced herself to relax to not spook her horse. 

“Jon Snow,” Gendry said. “He came to me for a dagger. He didn’t say why, but I knew it must be for you, so I had one of the stable boys keep an eye out for you leaving.” He leaned over toward her, trying to catch her eye. “You were avoiding me.”

“So what if I was?”

“I thought we were friends.”

“So did I,” Arya snapped. “And then you decided to join the Brotherhood. How did that turn out for you? Did you enjoy being sold to the Red Woman?”

“Not particularly,” Gendry said. “I did find out why the queen wanted me dead, though.” He grinned, bright and unfortunately catching. “I’m a proper bastard prince. Gendry Baratheon, at your service.”

Arya cast him a doubtful look. He looked much the same as the last time she had seen him, only perhaps a bit broader in the shoulder. She didn’t see any of King Robert in him. “You don’t look much like him.”

“Everyone says I’m the spitting image of him as a lad.” 

“Could be.” Arya knew she ought to slip Gendry, convince him to go back to Winterfell, but she had missed this, the casual conversation and easy companionship. She hadn’t had that since they had parted ways. “So you’re a king’s son now. Is that why now I’m not ‘my lady’?”

“You’ll always be milady,” Gendry said, tone abruptly serious. Arya fought back the heat rising to her face at the intimacy in how he said it, his voice low and soft, like he was telling her a secret.

“If that’s so, I order you to go back,” Arya said. “I don’t need you.”

“I don’t mean that I take your orders,” Gendry said. “If I serve anyone, it’s Jon Snow, and I think he’d want me to look after you.”

“I don’t _need_ looking after.”

“I know,” Gendry said. “But I’d like to.”

“You’ll only get in my way,” Arya said. “And should you be going to King’s Landing anyway, if the queen still wants you dead?”

“She thinks I _am_ dead,” Gendry reminded her. “Besides, I’ve been there the last few years and no one’s given me any bother. I know my way around the city, which is more than I can say for you.”

“I can manage.”

“I know,” Gendry said again. “I want to be there.” 

“It’s a bad idea.”

Gendry made a noise of agreement but kept riding alongside her. They rode in silence for several minutes, Arya too irritated and pleased and irritated at being pleased to say anything. Gendry shouldn’t be there; but at the same time she didn’t want him to leave. She wanted him in her sight so she knew he was alive, and that he was safe. 

“You said once,” Gendry said after a while, voice barely loud enough to hear over their horses’ hoofsteps, “that we could be family.” 

Arya bit the inside of her lip, then said, “I did.”

“Do you think we still could?” When she peeked at him from the corner of her eye, he was looking resolutely away from her, gazing straight ahead at the horizon. “Is that something you would want?”

Arya said, “I’m not the same kind of lady as my sister. I won’t be a wife, or a mother. That isn’t me.” 

“I know,” Gendry said, again. 

“Stop saying that,” Arya snapped. “You don’t, you don’t know me at all.”

“‘Course I do,” Gendry said. “You’re stubborn and you’re loyal and you’re the cleverest person I know. And I know you loved your brother and that you miss him. I know I wouldn’t be alive if it weren’t for you.” Gendry laughed, a sudden sharp sound. “Gods know I know you well enough to be terrified of you, too. But Arya, I’ve spent years wishing I’d said yes when you asked me to come with you.”

Arya stilled. “Say my name again.”

“What?”

“Say it.”

Gendry looked confused but obediently said, “Arya.”

Arya let out a small breath. “You never called me by my name before. Only Arry or my lady.” 

Gendry didn’t reply to that, only watched her steadily, waiting for her to say more. He had a stare on him that Arya always felt like a physical sensation on her skin; she remembered that stare when he asked her about Jaqen, when he wanted her to be quiet and not draw attention. Arya could ignore it now, or at least not react. She let his gaze rest on her and thought. The Faceless Men would tell her to leave him behind so she could work alone. Her father would have advised she persuade him to stay at Winterfell where he would be safe. Robb, or Jon, would have insisted that she honor Gendry’s choice. Sansa would warn her to be careful with her trust. 

If she told him to go—if she truly told him to go—he would leave. She was as sure of that as she was of anything. But he was asking. 

“I suppose,” Arya said eventually, “company might be nice.” 

Gendry grinned, wide and helpless, before looking down at his saddle. Arya could still see the upturned corner of his mouth; her own lips, very much without her bidding, turned up in reply.


	9. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to break my rotating POV pattern here for the plot pacing to work, so apologies for that! Posting this from my phone so if formatting looks wonky I’ll come back and fix it.

Jon had learned strategy from Ned Stark, from Robb’s tutor when Catelyn had not been there to forbid it, and from the Watch. Each had taught him something different. Ned had always reminded him to respect the enemy’s skill and ability, to never underestimate them. Their tutor had taught them formations and tactics from famous historical battles, reenacting them using Bran and Rickon’s toys to explain how the well-timed arrival of the mounted cavalry had won this battle, or why a moat had been so critical in this siege. From the Watch he had learned the brutality of true fighting and how, in the end, strategy meant very little. It helped, of course, to have a battle plan to fall back on, but sometimes nothing would be enough.

All of those lessons seemed inadequate in the face of the Night King. Jon dreamt of him: those vicious staring eyes meeting his across the ice, the cool ease with which he had raised the dead to their feet. How was he to strategize against an enemy like this?

Each night, he sequestered himself with Daenerys, Davos, and Grey Worm, pouring over maps of the north to highlight places their forces could shelter or mount defenses. Building more walls would be key; halting the dead army’s progress was imperative. Jon had sent runners north to evacuate towns and a raven to the Watch to warn them, though he had not yet heard back any news. He wanted, badly, to keep those people alive, both for their own sake and for the rather more mercenary reason of depriving the White Walkers of more troops.

Fire would be important as well. Jon had the men gathering wood at every opportunity, planning on building as many great bonfires as they could. Daenerys had surveyed the maps for where she might be most effective with her dragons; if the dead went into any forested area, she would be able to set the whole ablaze with them inside. Jon tried not to think of the casualties that would ensue; it was unavoidable.

But the highest priority of all would be the White Walkers themselves, and chief among them the Night King. To take down one of their number was to destroy the wights they controlled, and that was where Jon was focusing his plans. They had dragonglass weapons, though not nearly as many as Jon would like. There were even fewer Valyrian steel weapons, which would have been the best to have. The dragonglass-tipped arrows would be a boon, as would the ironwood shields provided by the Forresters, but how many of their army could seriously go toe to toe with a White Walker and survive?

“You’re afraid,” Daenerys said on the third night after they had discussed, for the seeming hundredth time, what they might expect once they reached the true north. Grey Worm had left their tent to run the Unsullied through exercises with their dragonglass spears. The candlelight jumped and danced on Daenerys’s skin, sparking in her eyes. “Do you think we are doomed?”

“We have no choice,” Jon said. “At least if we fight there’s a chance we might defeat them.” He sighed and slumped forward, hands propped on the table. “I wish we had more men.”

“I wish we had more dragons,” Daenerys said. Jon glanced over at her in and saw that she was smiling bitterly. “I was careless with Viserion. No one had been able to touch us for so long.” She sat suddenly, like a puppet with its strings cut. “I raised him from his egg,” she said, voice so quiet Jon had to strain to hear her. “I fed him from my own hand and I led him to his death.”

Jon was at her side in an instant, kneeling beside her to take her hand. “My queen, you don’t need to be here,” he told her once again. “Your forces are enough.”

“But they aren’t.” Daenerys met his eyes; her hand was soft and warm in his. This close he could feel her breath, and he wished--but no. Seeming to sense the direction of his thoughts, she gently took her hand back. “We both know that my dragons are the best hope we have.” She sighed and looked away from him. “I only wish I could guarantee their safety.”

“I understand.” Jon did not rise, instead gazing up at her. “You have my thanks, and that of your people, for risking them and yourself.”

“I hope it is enough,” she said, before rising and bidding him a good night. Jon stood alone in his tent after he had left, immeasurably guilty and longing to be finished with this entire campaign.

Jon had never marched with an army before. He’d commanded forces against the Boltons, certainly, and he’d led small bands of Night’s Watch or Wildings, but he’d never traveled with an endless stream of soldiers behind him, and it was frustratingly slow. It took every ounce of patience he had not to spur his horse to a gallop so he could reach Eastwatch as soon as possible, visions of Hardhelm in his mind’s eye. Only the steady pace of Daenerys on her horse beside his kept him still.

Through Bran he was gifted with near daily ravens from Sansa and Winterfell. She wrote little, but it eased his mind to know she was well and that they were still safe. When he remembered she was his wife, his heart leapt as he thought of their brief, tentative days as newlyweds. He could love her—did love her, if not quite the way a man loved his wife—but then he’d remember Daenerys and feel unfaithful to both of them.

None of those thoughts were in any way useful to the task at hand, and he did his best to banish them by focusing on training in the evenings, all the while they plunged deeper into the depths of winter.

 

The ruins of Eastwatch were visible from miles away. It was not so much the fortress as the gaping emptiness where the Wall had once been. Jon drew up his horse at the sight, startled and horrified even though he had been warned by Gendry. It was so much worse to see in person. He had taken for granted the strength of the Wall. It had its weaknesses—he himself had climbed it, after all—but he had never thought to see it broken. The gap was like a missing tooth, or a gutted animal.

“By all the gods,” Davos said under his breath. Behind them the army ground to a halt; Jon couldn’t spur his horse forward, frozen by a sudden wave of fear. How many had spilled through that passage? How far had they spread?

“We ought to send out the scouting parties,” he said, finally pulling himself together. “Find where the wights have been.”

“I agree.” Daenerys dismounted from her horse and strode forward. “I’ll take out Drogon.”

“Daenerys—” Jon caught himself. “Your Grace. We should conserve their energy.”

“This is what we can be used for,” she said. “Let me be of use.”

That, Jon could not deny her. He watched as she called down her great black dragon and climbed upon him. The Westerosi forces made sounds of astonishment as she took off into the sky, soon becoming a distant blur of black. Jon closed his eyes for a brief moment and prayed; then he called forward their scouts and sent them into the woods.

The army had gone quiet, eerily so. Jon supposed the sight of the fallen Wall was enough to make even the least credulous among them start to doubt. Every nerve was alight, every hair on end as he listened for the sound of movement and scanned the horizon for the shambling figures.

Then there was the sound of shouting and one of the scouting parties came running back into view, calling out, “In the trees! In the trees!” and they all turned as one as the skeletal, rotting forms of wights began to become clear in the dim light, and with that the war was upon them.

There was no way to catalog the days. The army split, as was necessary, to hunt the dead down to the villages they had attacked; Daenerys carried messages back and forth between their forces while Jon continued on to Eastwatch. Wights would attack; he beat them back alongside the men he had with him; they burned their dead; they marched on. He slept little, ate less. He read Sansa’s ravens at night and sent back his own brief replies to let her know he was alive. At times Daenerys camped with him; other times he had no idea where she was.

War was boring, he learned. He never saw any of the White Walkers, their absence conspicuous, so there was nothing to do but beat back the tide. They shored up defenses at towns they passed, gave weapons to those who could fight. When at last they reached Eastwatch, there was more to do--rejoining Tormund, helping to shore up the gap in the wall as best they could, but the fight came to them in spurts and drips. He had never fought a war before, only brief, intense battles, and he felt frustration at every turn, wishing he could be everywhere at once and knowing he was needed at Eastwatch to command the entirety of their army.

But they were making headway. The messages he received told him that they were not losing as many as they had feared; that they had successfully built barriers, kept flames burning, warded back the wights. At the fallen wall there were always more to stop, but still no sign of any leaders, not until several weeks in when Jon awoke to Tormund shaking him by the shoulder.

“What is it?” he asked, sitting up and rubbing at his face.

“We’re fucked,” Tormund said bluntly. “Come and see.”

Up on what remained of the battlements of Eastwatch, Jon gazed out over the earth. At first he wondered if the snow had melted, for the ground was dark once again. Then he realized it was not earth he was seeing, but wights, hordes and hordes of them gathered in the night. They were keeping their distance from the fortress, out of range of their arrows, but they were there. And in the distance, past the ruins of the Wall, Jon could make out the great hulking shape of a dragon; but it was not Rhaegal or Drogon, who he now knew instantly by sight.

“Ah,” Jon said.

“Seems they decided to cut off the head,” Tormund said. “So to speak.”

“Funny. That’s what I plan to do to them,” Jon said.

He met Daenerys in the hall. She was already dressed for battle, her hair bound back and dressed in practical, warm clothing. They met each other’s eyes and Jon longed dearly to take her in his arms, just once. Instead he bowed deeply and said, “Let us bring back spring.”

Daenerys smiled, fierce and cold at the same time. “We will make them sorry.”

Jon had learned strategy from many places, but it was Daenerys who had suggested the tactic they now took. She flew out first on the back of Drogon, breathing fire and fury down upon the wights, providing cover to the archers so they might get further out and within range of their targets. Then the first wave of fighters rode out.

The true difficulty was that they were fighting an enemy with no need for rest or food. Jon had given much thought to how to manage this, and so they rotated through their men, calling them back as a second wave rode out to give the first time to rest, and then Jon took to the field with the third wave, as around them the snow was reduced to icy water and the forces of the Night King were thinned, ever so slightly.

The battle raged for days. Each time they recalled part of their forces back, fewer returned. They burned most of the bodies, but they weren’t able to get to all of them, and at times Jon was faced with someone he’d known swinging a sword at him. Lord Manderly died on the third day; Tormund lost an eye on the second. The Dothraki grew more cautious, particularly with their horses. And still the dead marched. Occasionally there were reports of a White Walker met on the field; Jon kept a tally of them on the inside of his cloak strap and ran his thumb over the scratches as he went to sleep.

On the fifth day, Jon joined Daenerys on the watchtower of the fort and gazed down upon the field. Below, their weakened army fought the tireless dead. Snow whipped about their faces, encrusting Jon’s lashes and brows; Daenerys had pulled up the hood of her cloak to hide her face, but the rigid set of her spine was all he needed to see.

“If we are not able to kill their leaders soon, we will be overrun,” he said, knowing he was stating the obvious.

“I would fly us across the wall,” Daenerys said, “but we would be leaving our people behind.” She cast a dark look over her shoulder toward where the Night King waited. They had discussed, over hasty meals, why he hadn’t attacked yet. Daenerys was of the opinion that he was waiting for another of her dragons to fall. Jon thought that the Night King just didn’t care to involve himself in a fight unless he had to.

“Again?” Jon asked. Daenerys gave a curt nod before taking to the stairs to call her dragons.

Jon rode out in the next wave, pounding across the torn-up land as the last of Daenerys’s dragon fire dissipated into the frigid air. He lost himself in the burn of his muscles and the repetitive nature of the fight. Around him, men and wights fell. His eyes grew dry and sore from the wind; his hand cramped around the hilt of his sword.

He was readying to call the retreat for the day when he heard a horn on the wind. Startled from the fugue he’d found himself in, he straightened in his saddle and looked around. Beside him, Lord Forrester pulled up his horse and called, “Did you hear that, my lord?”

“Yes,” Jon said, squinting into the distance. “I did.”

And over the crest of the far southern hill came a tide of red and green riders, flanked by the blue of the Vale. The far ranks of the wights fell before them, and around Jon the men began to cheer at the sight of the fresh fighters from Houses Reed and Lannister descend upon the battlefield.

“Oh, thank the gods,” Jon said, dizzy with relief. “She got them here.”

“Go back to the fort, my lord,” Lord Forrester said. “We have them for now.”

But when Jon returned, he found Daenerys mounting up on her dragon once again. “My Queen!” he called, reining in his horse before them. “Did you see? Reinforcements at last!”

“Yes,” Daenerys said. “It’s our chance. Come, Jon—take Rhaegal. We end this tonight.”

Jon stared at her, then turned to look at the green dragon. Daenerys called out something in Valyrian, and the dragon—Rhaegal—bent his neck as he had seen Drogon do so many times now. “Is it safe?”

“You are a Targaryen,” Daenerys said. “This is your birthright.” She smiled, fierce and fiery. “What, are you afraid?”

Jon scowled at her and dismounted. “That is a petty way to secure my agreement.”

“If it works.” Daenerys sat back as Jon cautiously approached Rhaegal. The dragon’s huge golden eye followed his movement, but the beast did not move, save to bend his head. Jon reached out--his hand was shaking, he could see it but not stop it--and placed his hand on one of the spurs along Rhaegal’s neck, as he had seen Daenerys do before. When Rhaegal did not turn to snap at him, Jon took a step forward, then mounted up, perching precariously along the graceful, dangerous neck.

“Good,” Daenerys said. “Now— _sōvēs_!”

Rhaegal’s muscles tensed beneath him, the coiled energy terrifying and exhilarating all at once—and then they took to the air in one massive leap. Jon’s stomach dropped to his feet and he clung tightly to Rhaegal, wincing at the sharp bite of the wind. Ahead of him, Daenerys was already guiding Drogon north, and Rhaegal seemed to follow without Jon needing to steer him. He chanced a look to the ground below and had to swallow back the instinctive pang of fear at seeing the earth fall away, but when he looked out at the expanding horizon, he was instead overcome with amazement. He could see the whole world, it seemed, the snowy land below and the sea to the east, all of it small and precious.

And there, beyond the Wall, was the Night King. Jon saw him now, aloft on the chill blue dragon that had once been Viserion. They loomed dark against the icy grey sky, menacing, but now within reach. Instinctively, he leaned forward against Rhaegal’s neck, and the dragon responded to him by increasing speed, sending them flying ahead of Daenerys. Jon glanced over his shoulder and saw that Daenerys was smiling.

The three dragons met in a clash of limbs and fire, Daenerys calling, “Dracarys!” in a powerful voice, and the Night King urging his own steed to hiss blue fire toward them. Rhaegal barrelled away from it, dropping several hundred feet at once—Jon’s stomach lurched and he was abruptly grateful that rations had been in short supply recently—before surging up to bite at the dragon’s belly. For a few horrible moments, Jon could do nothing but hold on for dear life, praying to the old gods and the new that he would not be thrown to his death.

“We have to get him to the ground!” he called to Daenerys. “Can we do that?”

“The wings,” Daenerys shouted back. “Burn the wings!”

Jon copied her, commanding, “Dracarys!” to Rhaegal when Viserion’s unfurled wing was in their sights. The undead dragon shrieked, a horrible screeching noise that raised every hair on Jon’s body. He resisted the urge to cover his ears and urged Rhaegal on once more.

Rhaegal and Drogon seemed to understand what their riders wanted of them after that, going for their former brother’s wings with a frightening fierceness. Viserion faltered in the air, then began to plummet to the earth, wings no longer able to bear his weight. Jon squeezed his knees and took a deep breath just as Rhaegal dove after him.

The dragons hit the ground with enough force to send Jon tumbling down Rhaegal’s back. He caught himself on one of Rhaegal’s frills and winced as his arm wrenched. With painstaking slowness, he let himself fall from one purchase to another before finally sliding to the ground and landing in knee-high snow. A hundred feet away, Drogon was landing with considerably more grace, Daenerys perched on his back as though it were a throne, but Jon only had eyes for the cold, slender figure of the Night King, who was raising himself up with a look of blazing hatred in his eyes.

Jon unsheathed Longclaw and called, “Will you fight me, then?”

“Jon, _move_ ,” Daenerys shouted. “I can burn him, just _move_ —”

But it was too late. The Night King was charging toward him, his own sword in hand, and this, this Jon had spent his whole life preparing for.

He was a good swordsman. Even by the standards of the Starks and the Watch, he was considered a fine hand with a blade. Ned had often said so, as had Jory and even, begrudgingly, Ser Allister. Countless hours in the courtyard of Castle Black sparring with Ed and Grenn; hundreds of training sessions at Robb’s side; all had led to this. Jon let his mind go, reacting instinctively to each thrust and parry of the Night King’s blade. Distantly, he could feel Daenerys’s eyes upon them, but there was no hope of him making a retreat quickly enough to avoid a sword in the back, so she stayed her hand.

Up close, the Night King looked far more human than Jon had thought he would. The wights were such unbearable things, mockeries of life clothed in the bodies of their fallen friends. The White Walker he fought at Hardhelm had been twisted and withered, but the Night King had a powerful awareness to him. Behind those unnatural eyes was an intelligence, an intention. He was no mindless creature.

Jon was a good swordsman, but he had been fighting for days. Weariness had settled deep within his bones, and he was up against a creature that never tired. When he first stumbled, the Night King’s sword caught at his shoulder where the pieces of his armor joined. The second time, it caught his cheek.

Jon began to realize, with deep horror, that he could not win this fight. He stumbled a third time, and was forced back. Blood dripped from his face and arm to the snow; he thought, very well.

“Daenerys!” he called. “My Queen! Do it!”

“Jon—”

“Do it!” He pushed himself up onto his feet again and felt, more than saw, the onrush of fire, the hot air hitting him like the flat of a sword. The Night King half-turned, to run or dodge Jon didn’t know. All he knew was that he at last had an opening, and so he lunged on his shaking legs to thrust his blade of Valyrian steel into the Night King’s back, just as the flames overtook him and his vision went red, and then, at last, black.

He was in a green clearing, at dawn. He was being watched; he felt the weight of many eyes upon him, but when he looked around he saw no one, save for a man, tall with light curly hair and a worn face. He was shirtless and tied to a great tree. His wrists were raw from fighting his bonds.

“Please,” the man said. “Will you help me?”

Jon found that there was a dagger at his waist. He approached the tree cautiously, watching warily for whoever was in the trees, but no one made themselves known. The man glanced nervously at the blade in Jon’s hand, so Jon stepped farther away from him to cut the ropes. The blade was a good one; the ropes parted easily, falling to the cool earth with a soft rustle.

“Thank you, my friend,” the man said. He straightened from the tree, rubbing at his wrists. “I have been waiting for a long time for someone to find me.”

“Of course,” Jon said. “Who did this to you?”

The man looked about them, to the trees. “They meant well,” he said. “But their time, and mine, is done.”

Jon looked closer at the man, at the high planes of his cheekbones and the set of his eyes. Something about him was familiar; he couldn’t place it.

“Who are you?” Jon asked. “What is your name?”

The man startled, eyes widening. “My name?” he said. “I—I don’t remember.” Then he smiled and said, “It hardly matters anyway.”

Jon opened his mouth to say that of course a name mattered, but the man was already walking away from him, into the trees. There was a hint of movement, a green figure moving in the dim undergrowth, and then the man was gone, only the rope on the grass to prove that he had been there at all.

 

The first thing Jon became aware of was the sound of voices. He recognized these voices; one was a woman’s, the other a man’s. Both were dear to him, in different ways. They were arguing, not particularly quietly.

The second thing Jon became aware of was the pain. There was a sharp stinging on his face, and in his shoulder, and just above his left knee. But he did not ache as much as he thought he should—but why should he be aching?

Then he remembered the dragonfire on his face.

He opened his eyes.

Above him was a poorly maintained ceiling of wood. Out of the corner of his eye he saw pale silver hair, just a flash of it. Daenerys. He tried to speak, but his voice came out as a croak instead. The arguing voices cut off abruptly.

“Jon?” Daenerys’s pale, wide-eyed face came into his vision. Her hair was as casual as he had ever seen it, just in a braid, and there was a new scar just under her right eye. “You’re awake. Thank the gods.”

“My Queen,” Jon tried to say. She made a face and ducked out of his sight again before reappearing with a cup. There was a hand at his back, helping him up, and as he sat up he realized that the other voice he’d heard was Tormund’s. Jon took the cup gratefully from Daenerys and drank deeply until the cup was dry. He set it aside and said again, “My Queen.”

Daenerys smiled, a tentative thing. “Yes.”

“Are we—did we—?” He tried to form his thoughts into sentences, but couldn’t quite muster it.

“If you’re asking did you kick the Night King’s arse, yes, you did,” Tormund said. “We were just waiting for your royalness to wake yourself up so we could go south. People are getting thoroughly sick of the snow, which I personally don’t understand, but then it means fewer of them will try to claim our land.”

“Tormund,” Daenerys said with a sigh. “Will you give me a moment with him?”

Tormund glanced between them. He had taken to wearing an eyepatch over his missing eye and looked properly dangerous. “Right,” he said. “Apologies, Your Grace.” He gave a bow, only slightly mocking, and left the room.

Jon looked about as Daenerys settled primly at the edge of his mattress, arranging her skirts over her knees. They were at Eastwatch, in one of the old rooms largely considered unusable. Someone had done a bit of work with the ceiling and some canvas to keep the leaks out, but it was drafty, which accounted for the small mountain of furs draped over him.

When he mustered the courage to look to Daenerys, he discovered that she was watching him intently. “It seems we often end up in this situation,” he said jokingly. “You at my bedside.”

“I would prefer if you don’t make getting grievously injured a habit,” Daenerys said. She fussed with the top blanket, dropping her gaze from him. “You’ve been asleep for three days.”

“Gods,” Jon said. “That long?”

“Mm. Some of it was spent flying, of course.”

Jon nodded, but her saying _flying_ had him thinking again of the blistering heat rushing over his skin. “Daenerys,” he said, “the dragonfire. It should have killed me.”

“Yes,” she said. “It should have.” She smiled, a little secretive and utterly genuine. “But it didn’t.” She glanced down at his hand, then carefully placed her fingers in his. “I’m glad it didn’t.”

“I will keep my promise,” Jon said. “My forces are yours, now that we have defeated the winter. You will sit on the Iron Throne.”

“That isn’t why I’m glad,” Daenerys said. She squeezed his hand briefly before letting go. She stood, abruptly becoming distant once more. “We’ve been waiting for you to wake before we return to Winterfell. Will you be able to ride tomorrow?”

“Yes,” Jon said, feeling for the wound in his leg. It was not so great that it would impede him, not at the army’s pace. “And you are well?”

“Of course,” Daenerys said. She gazed down at him, expression blank. “Rest. We have a long journey awaiting us, and your wife is no doubt eager to see you once again.”

Jon thought of Sansa beside him in bed, asleep in the cool light of morning, and was immeasurably guilty that he’d wanted to ask Daenerys to sit beside him for longer. “Yes,” he said. Daenerys looked away from him, her mouth tightening; then she gave a short nod and excused herself, leaving Jon to fall back into sleep, this time dreamless.

 

Sansa greeted them at the gates of Winterfell, her expression brightening when Jon lifted his head. They embraced once he dismounted, falling into each other’s arms as they had at Castle Black so long ago. He breathed in the smell of her hair, startled by how the feeling of her eased the heavy weight in his chest; he had not realized until now just how much he had missed her.

She startled him as well as Daenerys by kissing her queen on each cheek, as the southerners sometimes did. Daenerys flushed lightly, looking pleased, and took Sansa’s hands before she could quite back away.

“You are well, I trust?” Daenerys said, looking Sansa over.

“Better for seeing your safe return, Your Grace, My Lord.” Sansa glanced down, then back at Daenerys. “I afraid I have only ordinary good news for you, however.”

“Word from your sister?” Daenerys asked. When Sansa nodded, she looked to Jon, who gestured to Davos and Tyrion that they ought to speak in private.

Once alone, Sansa told them what she knew of Arya’s efforts in King’s Landing. “She is safe, and she is well,” Sansa said. “I am assured she has the Ironborn in her hands and will deliver us the ships and the harbor. Ellaria Sand proves more difficult to secure, so Dornish assistance is unlikely to reach us, but at least Cersei’s interest in her is only personal and not political. As for the Lannister forces, you’ve seen for yourself that Ser Jaime has won some of them to our side. I hope their assistance was of use.”

“Without their arrival, we would not have won,” Jon told her. “That is twice now you’ve saved the day for me.”

Sansa blushed and smiled. “I am glad to hear it.” She touched Jon’s face lightly, over the recent cut from the Night King’s blade. “And I am glad you are both here.”

They spoke then for several hours about how to take King’s Landing, drawing upon Ser Davsos’s experience on the ships at Blackwater and Tyrion’s knowledge of the city’s defenses. Sansa contributed what she had seen during the siege, where Cersei might take refuge when the army attacked. By the time Sansa rose and said she had asked for a fine feast to be prepared in honor of their success, Jon was ready to sleep once again. It was only when Sansa paused, just as she was about to leave the room, and said, “Jon, I almost forgot to say—Howland Reed is here and asked to have a word with you before supper,” that he came back to full alertness.

“Oh,” Jon said. “I—yes. Please, send him in.”

Sansa smiled again—Jon felt warm from head to toe from the force of it—and ducked in to kiss his cheek. “I’m really very glad you are all right,” she said quietly. “You and Daenerys.” There was curious emphasis to her voice that Jon did not know how to parse, but Jon had no chance to ask her to clarify; she was already gone.

 

Howland Reed was a small man, his chin only coming level with Jon’s shoulder, and slight. He greeted Jon formally as King in the North, which made Jon wince, and at first did not seem inclined to say much. Jon asked after the status of his lands and about his daughter, unsure of how to ask about Lyanna and Rhaegar; but it was Howland who at last sighed and said, “I did promise to tell you what I know of your parents.”

“Yes,” Jon said cautiously. “I would be in your debt.”

“Not at all,” Howland said. “It is good for a man to know his parents. It’s only that I’ve gone for two decades without speaking of this that I hardly know how to start.”

“I hardly have anywhere else to go at the moment,” Jon said wryly. “Take your time.”

Howland nodded and paced about the room for a few minutes, his hands behind his back. He was a little younger than Ned, Jon thought, perhaps just by a few years, the silver only just beginning to show at his temples. He would have borne this secret for half his life, then. Had it weighed on him? Had it weighed on Ned?

“I’ll start with Harrenhal,” Howland said at last. “That was where they first met, after all.”

Howland had been a young man—“Even smaller than I am now, if you can believe that,” he said with a laugh—and it was his first tourney. The splendor of the place had been overwhelming, royal banners streaming from the towers and the grounds teeming with southern nobles, all clad in rich silks and fine satin. The northerners stood out in their heavier clothing, their cloaks. It had still been summer, but they were accustomed to the chill of northern nights.

Howland couldn’t recall how the fight had started, only that it had been three young squires who had set upon him. Insults were thrown, and he was overmatched by the larger young men, at least until a sharp voice had called, “What do you think you’re doing? That is a man of House Reed, sworn to House Stark.”

“That was your mother,” Howland said with a smile. “Lyanna Stark. I had never seen anyone lovelier, or fiercer.”

Lyanna, though hardly older than Howland and a woman besides, had chased the squires off with dire warnings of what she might say to her elder brothers if they assaulted a vassal of House Stark, punctuating her threats with swipes from a wooden practice sword. Then she had offered Howlon her hand and smiled at him, saying, “They’ll learn their lesson.”

“I didn’t know what she meant at first,” Howland said. “I thought maybe she was really going to tell her father what had happened, and I begged her not to. It was humiliating to have to go to my liege lord over such a petty matter. But she promised that wasn’t what she intended, and I let it go.”

Then, during the tourney, a mysterious knight had appeared.

They called him the Knight of the Laughing Tree for the emblem on his shield: a white weirwood with a laughing red face. He never removed his helmet, speaking in a curiously pitched voice when he greeted the king and the royal family. He challenged the three knights the squires served. The knights laughed at the idea of facing an unknown knight; but the strange knight unseated all three of them and demanded their horses and armor as reward. When they sought to regain their property, the Knight of the Laughing Tree advised that they teach their squires politeness. And so Howland Reed’s honor was avenged.

“I thought it was one of the Starks from the beginning,” Howland said. “Who else would have the motive, or the skill? I wished to thank whoever it was, so I visited Lyanna in her tent to ask which of her brothers it had been. She laughed in my face and said it had been her.”

“She defeated three knights?” Jon asked in astonishment.

“Yes,” Howland said. “She was a fierce woman, small as she was, and she grew up learning alongside her brothers. She did not draw much attention to it, but she was known for being wild, and for being rather unlike the women of the south. Even so, I had not thought she would do such a thing. She swore me to secrecy, and what could I do but agree?”

But though the Knight of the Laughing Tree had been popular among those in attendance at the tourney, both Robert Baratheon and Aerys Targaryen were unnerved by the strange knight. When the morning came and the knight had vanished, the mad king sent his son and kingsguard to seek out the knight and to unmask him. But they found only the shield, hung from the branch of a tree.

“I don’t know precisely what happened,” Howland said, “but I believe your mother and father met that day that Rhaegar was sent to unmask her. Instead of bringing her to his father, Rhaegar fell in love with the wild Stark girl. How could he not? I was half in love with her myself. When he named her the Queen of Love and Beauty, I knew he must have. I saw her when she held that crown. She wanted it; she wanted _him_.”

But Rhaegar was married, and Lyanna was promised to another. Howland assumed nothing would come of it; and then Lyanna vanished and Rhaegar was blamed. Then the Starks went south and Robert Baratheon declared war against the throne, and Howlon could do nothing to stop it. He was bound to fight alongside the Starks, and so he did, up until the Tower of Joy where he stood at the doorway to Lyanna’s room and watched her press a newborn babe into her brother’s hands.

“Ned and I never spoke of it,” Howland said. “Your mother’s death weighed heavily on him. I think it was only at that moment in the tower that he realized Robert’s Rebellion was based on a lie, that Lyanna had not been taken but had gone willingly. By then Rhaegar had been slain, and the Targaryen line was near to being extinguished. In that moment, it must have seemed as though his only choice was to hide you.”

“To protect me,” Jon said quietly.

“To protect you, and your mother,” Howland said, “and to protect the realm. You have to understand, with Rhaegar dead the throne would go to Viserys, and we had suffered so long under the Mad King. Rhaegar we knew to be noble, honorable—”

“For the most part,” Jon cut in sharply. “What of his wife?”

“Yes.” Howland looked down. “Yes, he did Elia Martell a terrible harm the day he abandoned her. That cannot be denied.”

“He behaved selfishly,” Jon said. The thought of abandoning Sansa if, by some miracle, he were able to wed Daenerys—he couldn’t imagine it. “He abandoned his duty. There is no great romance in that.”

Howland sighed. “No, I suppose not. I do not think Rhaegar thought of it in that way. His marriage to Elia was hardly one of true love, no one can deny that. It was a marriage of politics. But he did care for her in his own way; I always thought, in a way, he loved them both. I have spent years trying to learn how Rhaegar thought so I could understand what happened—out of love for your mother, and for Ned Stark—and I suspect Rhaegar thought to be like Aegon the Conquerer, who had two sister-wives. The Targaryens like things to be in threes; I think he thought, perhaps foolishly, that his first wife would not object.”

“He should have thought if Robert Baratheon might object,” Jon said.

“He was the prince,” Howland said. “I doubt he was accustomed to thinking that someone might deny him.”

Jon shook his head. “And yet you say he was noble.”

“He was,” Howland said. “And he could be selfish, too. He was a man, my lord, with all that means.” He looked Jon over. “You look more like Lyanna than him, and in the ways that matter you are Ned Stark’s son, for he was the one who raised you and taught you, but it is Rhaegar’s blood within you, and you have his nobility of spirit. You will do—and have done—great things.” Howland bowed deeply, as a man to his sovereign. “He would have been proud to call you his son.”

Jon knew Howland meant it as a compliment, but he could not think of it as such. He brooded on Howland’s tale all through dinner, though the mood of the feast was celebratory, and was only roused from his thoughts when a toast was raised in his and Daenerys’s honor. He looked about to see that Sansa was standing, her goblet raised to them.

“To our queen and our prince,” she said, smiling proudly. “May they lead us to victory once again!”

The room burst into cheers. Jon was heartened to see Daenerys’s forces were mixed freely with the northerners, all differences of birth and culture erased by the shared fight, and that all, even those who had been skeptical of Daenerys’s claim, showed no hesitation in drinking to them both. Daenerys was smiling, cheeks very slightly pink.

Later, though, when he had retired to bed with Sansa, he fell back into his churning thoughts. Sansa let him be at first, concentrating instead on combing out her hair and readying for sleep, but when she sat beside him, she finally asked what was the matter. And though Jon hadn’t intended to share Howland’s story—he still didn’t know how much of it he believed—he found himself pouring the whole out to her, hoping for some kind of clarity to be shone upon it.

Sansa was quiet for a few minutes after he finished, gaze distant as she plaited her hair. At last she said, “It is certainly a different story from what we learned. I wonder that Father allowed so many to think Lyanna a victim for so long.”

“To save her honor?” Jon suggested.

“I suppose.” Sansa turned to look at him. “You seem troubled by more than that, though. What is it?”

Jon hesitated. “For my whole life,” he said slowly, “I wanted to know who my mother was. I thought that once I did, I would feel as though I belonged, because I would understand what brought me into this family and what led Ned to unfaithfulness. And after I learned I wasn’t his son, but Lyanna’s, I thought perhaps after I knew the whole story, I would feel—something. That I would feel honored to bear their names. But I don’t feel a kinship with the people in that story. They may have given me life and their blood may run in my veins, but I don’t see myself in them.”

“You keep looking to others to define yourself,” Sansa said. She touched the scar above his eye, then the one on his cheek, her fingers light as feathers. “But you are not those who came before you. You are all of them, together. I am as much Littlefinger and Cersei as I am my mother—no, don’t make that face, it’s true. I learned much from them, and from Margaery and Olenna Tyrell as well. Even Tyrion. I am not defined by Catelyn Stark any more than you are by Rhaegar Targaryen. You are Jon Snow, crown to the Iron Throne, Lord of Winterfell, Conqueror of Winter.” Her touch alit on his lips. “And you made yourself that.”

“You make it sound so easy.”

“It isn’t.” Sansa dropped her hand. “But it will become so in time.”

Jon gazed up at her. She was so beautiful; and she was so sharp, but delicately, deliberately so. What a queen she could have made, if things had been different. What a fortunate fool he was, to be married to her.

He reached for her and laced their fingers together. “Lord Reed said he thought Rhaegar loved them both.” He dropped his eyes. “Do you think that’s possible?”

“Yes,” Sansa said. His gaze snapped back up to meet hers, and he saw she was smiling fondly, a little like Ygritte would smile at him when he did something foolish but charming. “I do believe that’s possible.” She leaned down to kiss him; and he pulled her into his arms, lost in the realization that he loved her.


	10. Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has come to my attention that it’s HowLAND not HowLON which apparently my brain Mandela effect-ed on me. I think I’ve fixed most of them now but just an FYI.

From the time she was a girl, Lyanna Stark’s entire life was planned out for her. As the only daughter of Rickard Stark, there were certain expectations; that she would make a good marriage, that she would learn to run a household, that she would be a mother and a wife, and in truth she had never resented these expectations. But even from her earliest days, Lyanna was happier outside, barefoot in the grass along her brothers or riding in the woods with her hair loose. Her brothers indulged her, especially Brandon, who defied their father to teach her in secret how to hold a sword and how to joust.

“All Stark women should know how to defend themselves,” he told her as he corrected her grip on the hilt of her practice sword. “You are no delicate flower, but a wolf.”

Lyanna, then only twelve, had bared her teeth at him and snarled. Brandon laughed and stepped away before bidding to lunge at him.

She practiced too with Benjen once he was old enough, for he would have to keep her secret if he didn’t want her to pummel him. Ned, she knew, would have felt honor-bound to tell their parents, but Ned was at the Eyrie and what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. And when Benjen refused to practice with her because she beat him too often, she practiced alone with targets made from old dresses stuffed with straw.

Lyanna wasn’t foolish enough to believe that she could be a knight. In truth, she knew that little was likely to come of it. She enjoyed swordsmanship and she enjoyed riding, but one day she would have to lay down her blade, and she came to make her peace with that. As she grew older, she let her mother corral her into lessons more often, learning to sew and embroider as neatly as her elders and how to manage a staff. Who her husband would be, she didn’t know, but she knew the day she would have to be married was fast approaching.

When Ned brought Robert Baratheon’s proposal to her at Winterfell, she was at first flattered. She had met Robert on occasion and thought him handsome; too handsome, really, for she also knew that he was more often in a woman’s bed than out of it, and if Ned had spoken to her first, she would have told him that. But their father approved of the match; Robert was the heir to Storm’s End, after all, and the first son of a powerful family.

“Ned,” Lyanna said that night, having crept into his room to speak with him, “I hear that Robert Baratheon already has at least one bastard in the Vale. Can you deny it?”

And Ned, her too-honest brother, looked away with a flush in his cheeks. “I cannot deny it,” he said after a moment. “I have seen the girl. She looks just like him.”

“And yet you think he will be a fitting husband to me?” she asked. Robert was handsome, yes, and brave, and he was Ned’s closest friend; but she did not believe he would change his ways for love of her. “He will never be content with a wife, Ned.”

“If it were you, he might be,” Ned said. “What he has done is in the past.”

“No man can truly change his nature,” she said. “Even for love. You would have me marry a man who would dishonor me so?”

That, Ned could not answer, and Lyanna went to bed frustrated and unsatisfied, thinking for the first time of how she might escape the life laid out before her.

 

The tourney at Harrenhal was the most magnificent thing Lyanna had ever seen.

Red and black banners of the Targaryens streamed against the vivid blue sky, alongside the yellow of House Whent. The grounds of the great ruined castle were alive with people, brightening the dragon-burned corridors and battlements. Lyanna had never been among such a large crowd; she met so many people within her first hour that her head was spinning and she excused herself to her tent to gain a chance to breathe before the opening ceremonies.

Lyanna sat with her brothers and father in the stands, Robert Baratheon and his brothers not far from them. She watched as King Aerys, startlingly withered and ill-looking, bade them all welcome. Beside him sat his eldest son, Rhaegar; even from afar she could tell he was handsome, a tall strong figure with the streaming bright hair of the Targaryen line and straight, noble bearing. The princess sat beside him, her eyes downcast; she was terribly thin, but beautiful, and Lyanna hoped she was not be too taxed by the long ceremony. It was the first time Lyanna had seen any of the royal family, and it was strange to realize that they were as human as her own family.

The eldest son of the Lannister house was sworn to the Kingsguard that day, a curious choice for an heir. He was Lyanna’s age, hardly more than a child, nearly gleaming in the sunlight. “That over there is his sister,” Ned told her, pointing discreetly toward a fair-haired woman who was watching with an impassive expression. “Cersei Lannister. They thought once that she might marry Rhaegar.”

“Their children would have been very blonde,” Lyanna observed, and Ned laughed.

After the tourney was opened, Lyanna retreated to her tent to ready for the great feast while her brothers left with Robert Baratheon to “catch up on news,” which she suspected meant, “drink until poor Benjen is sick.” It was while she was washing her face that she heard the sound of fighting, and she looked out to see what was happening.

Instead of a brawl between knights, as she had half-expected, she saw a slight boy in the colors of House Reed being set upon by three larger boys, all wearing the garb of squires to lesser houses. The Reed boy was doing his best to defend himself, but he was far smaller than them and outnumbered besides. Infuriated, Lyanna cried, “That’s my father’s man you’re kicking!” and she seized Benjen’s practice sword from the tent before falling upon them.

Though she was a girl and somewhat out of practice, they scattered before her, but not before she got a good few whacks in. She left one boy limping and another with a welt across his face—he would have a time explaining that to his master, she thought with satisfaction—while the third just went running. Lyanna watched them go, narrow-eyed, then looked down at the Reed boy sprawled before her.

“My lady,” the boy said, gasping. “I am in your debt.”

“Hardly,” she said, offering him a hand. “You are my father’s bannerman. We are sworn to protect you.”

The boy, who told her he was Howland of House Reed, was scraped but not much injured. She took him into her tent and cleaned his cuts. He was perhaps younger than her, and when she inquired she learned he was nearly alone at the tourney. “Well, you must sit with my brothers and me at the feast,” she said, and she did not let him argue.

To her satisfaction, her brothers took to the young man instantly. Ned in particular seemed to like him, the two of them falling into easy conversation. Brandon asked how they had met, and when she told them, Benjen, nearly falling over from drink, stood and announced, “We ought to teach those squires a lesson!”

“Better their masters teach them,” Ned said, breaking off his conversation. “They are only boys.”

“They learned their manners from their masters,” Lyanna pointed out. “I think perhaps _they_ ought to be taught the lesson.”

“By whom?” Ned asked. “One of us? Young Howland here?”

“Why not?”

“Benjen is too young, and if I or Brandon challenged them, we might start a war between our houses,” Ned said. “Brandon, tell her.”

“Unfortunately, Ned is right.” Brandon winked at her as he added, “But that isn’t to say I won’t have a word with them in private.”

Across the hall, Lyanna saw the three squires sitting together, none of them looking at all chastened. She set her jaw and said, “You’d better. By disrespecting the Reeds, they disrespect us.”

“Our little lady wolf,” Brandon said, “so fierce. If you were a boy, I’d say you should take to the lists and fight them yourself.”

Lyanna opened her mouth to answer, but then the hall was being hushed as Rhaegar Targaryen stood and walked toward the fire, where a great harp sat. Ned grunted softly, said, “The prince is said to be a great musician,” and turned in his seat. Lyanna did as well, marveling at how the firelight illuminated the prince, so that he seemed wreathed in flame.

He did not say anything before he began to play, no prelude or explanation of his choice. He simply began to pluck at the strings, until the entire hall fell into silence, and then he began to sing, “High in the halls of the kings who are gone, Jenny would dance with her ghosts…”

Lyanna knew the song well; it was an old favorite of many bards, for the story of Jenny of Oldstones and Duncan Targaryen was one of great beauty and great sadness. But though Lyanna had heard it many times, knew the story of Jenny the peasant girl and her wild friends and her love for the Prince of Dragonflies as well as any other story, she had never heard it sung with such conviction. Rhaegar sang as though he’d known them both, and loved them dearly. Lyanna could almost see Jenny there before her, long hair strewn with flowers as she danced in the burnt halls of Summerhall where her husband had died.

“Lyanna,” said Benjen, voice cracking with suppressed amusement, “are you _crying_?”

She was, she realized when she lifted her hand to her face. She stared in wonder at her damp fingers and rubbed the tear between her thumb and forefinger until it was gone. Benjen started giggling, saying, “Our Lyanna, weeping at a song!”

“Be quiet,” Lyanna said; Rhaegar was still singing. But Benjen would not stop laughing, so to silence him, Lyanna lifted her wine cup and emptied it over his head. Benjen yelped, then at last went quiet as he tried to wipe his face. Lyanna looked up, satisfied, and met Rhaegar’s eyes; he was watching her, lips curving up into a slight smile.

After the feast, Lyanna returned to her tent on Robert Baratheon’s arms. He was drunk and affectionate, attempting to kiss her more than once before Ned pulled him away. “You are not married yet,” he reminded his friend, giving Lyanna an apologetic look.

“Lyanna Stark,” Robert said, clutching at his chest. “The finest woman in all Westeros, the kindest and sweetest.”

“Sweet?” Benjen demanded. His hair was still damp with wine.

“Weeping at the Crown Prince’s singing!” Robert waved his arms wildly. “So moved by love!”

“Perhaps it wasn’t the song but the singer,” said Brandon. “Rhaegar is very handsome.”

“Not more so than me!” Robert declared, and he charged at Brandon, the two of them tussling while Lyanna picked up the pace to her tent.

Later, she couldn’t say what it was that drove her from her bed that night. Perhaps it was the knowledge that her marriage was fast approaching, and with it the end of her life as she had known it. Perhaps it was the desire to reclaim her wildness and the spirit that had sent her running through the forests after her brothers. Perhaps it was only the indignation she felt on behalf of Howland Reed, or perhaps it was the dream she had of the Weirwood, her hand pressed to the trunk as it whispered to her of the winter to come and the promised one who would deliver the spring.

Whatever it was, she woke in the dead of night while her brothers slept knowing what she must do, and she crept from the tent to seek out armor and a shield.

The paint on her shield was still drying when she added herself as a mystery knight to the lists, challenging the three knights whose squires had attacked Howland. They were all three known to be unpleasant sorts, and lazy besides; she did not much fear for her chances against them. Still, her heart beat fast as a rabbit’s when she mounted up, no squire at her side, ready to defend the honor of House Reed.

All three of them she unseated; and when she had demanded their horses and armor as forfeit, as was her right, they begged for leniency and she gave it to them, on the condition they discipline their squires. At her words, the crowd erupted into cheers; the three knights were more unpopular than she had realized.

“Approach, Ser Knight, and declare yourself,” King Aerys commanded when the three knights had done as she asked.

“I beg Your Grace’s pardon, but I will not,” Lyanna called back. “My duty is done, and I will be gone.”

“You will unmask yourself,” King Aerys said, voice rising, “if not today then by tourney’s end.” At his side, Rhaegar shifted, eyes narrowing.

“As Your Grace commands it,” Lyanna said, having no intention of riding forth again. That evening she returned her stolen armor to the knight she had taken it from and hid the shield among her belongings. Howland Reed came to her tent to ask her to thank her brothers for him, and when she laughed, he frowned and asked what was funny.

“It isn’t my brothers you have to thank,” she said, and she showed him the shield. After a moment, Howland laughed too, and they clasped hands, forged into friends by their shared secret.

But she had not accounted for King Aerys when she had decided to don the armor. Word spread that Aerys was convinced the knight had been Jaime Lannister in disguise; when Lyanna failed to appear the following day bearing the weirwood shield, Aerys dispatched his Kingsguard to seek out the knight. Lyanna fled to her tent under the pretense of feeling unwell and ran into the forest outside Harrenhal to hide the shield where it might not incriminate her or her brothers.

It was there, while she was knelt on the ground attempting to hide the shield with what few fallen leaves there were, that Rhaegar found her.

“That won’t do,” he said. Lyanna whipped around, eyes wide as Rhaegar stepped through the trees. Even in the dimmed light he seemed to glow, his hair so bright and his face so fair. He was even more handsome up close, fine-featured with such beautiful eyes. Lyanna couldn’t move; she was caught, as surely as if she had been still wearing the armor, and her only hope was that she could convince him that it had been her and Aerys’s anger should fall on her alone.

“You’ll want to hide it better than that, or not at all,” Rhaegar continued. He approached her slowly, hands held out before her, as one would a startled horse. “Let me help you.”

“Help me?” she repeated.

“Yes,” Rhaegar said. “Unlike my father, I don’t think you meant any malice by it.”

“By what?” Lyanna asked, though she had just told herself that she would have to confess all.

“You were defending the honor of your bannerman.” Rhaegar knelt beside her and lifted the shield. Its laughing face smiled at them. “My father thinks the Knight of the Laughing Tree was mocking him.”

 

“Is that what they’re calling him?”

“That’s what they’re calling _you_ ,” Rhaegar said. He brushed dirt from the shield and gazed at the insignia. “It is a striking symbol, though perhaps you ought to have chosen something less associated with the North.”

“I meant no harm,” Lyanna said, finally abandoning her pretense of ignorance.

“I know.” Rhaegar stood, taking the shield with him. He looked about him, then reached up and pulled down a tree branch. He slid the shield straps over it before letting the branch go. “How about that? Suitably mysterious, I think.”

“Yes, I suppose.” Lyanna stood carefully, brushing dirt from her knees as she did. “Your Highness, why are you helping me?”

“Why did you help Howland Reed?” he shot back, turning to her with raised eyebrows. He wasn’t quite smiling, but there was a hint of amusement at the curve of his mouth.

“Because it was the right thing to do,” Lyanna said.

“There’s my answer as well,” Rhaegar said. “Half of the knights of the realm would be wise to learn from you, Lady Stark.” He gave her a small bow. “I have to say, I had heard you were a wild beauty; but you are far more than that.”

“Indeed, Your Highness?” Lyanna asked, beginning to smile. Rhaegar was disarming, casual without being indecorous. He kept a careful, respectful distance from her, but spoke as though they were old friends. “What am I, then?”

“A fierce and loyal knight,” Rhaegar said. “With a wife such as you, any man could be king.”

“And if I don’t wish to be a wife?”

“Then you needn’t be.” Rhaegar smiled at her fully, blindingly brilliant and beautiful. “But either way I would welcome you at King’s Landing, for I think we could be great friends.”

“Bold of you,” Lyanna said. “Especially when you know so much of me, and I so little of you.”

“What is there to know? I am the eldest son of Aerys Targaryen, an indifferent swordsman but a passionate musician. I am married to a wife I am fond of, with two precious children.”

“All those things are common knowledge,” Lyanna said. “I would have a secret.”

“A secret? I suppose that’s fair.” Rhaegar paced about for a moment before turning to face her, squaring his shoulders. “This tourney is not just a tourney. I came here to speak with members of the great houses about my father’s reign.”

“What of it?”

“When it is to end.” Rhaegar’s expression became pensive, almost sad. “It is not something I contemplate with joy, but my father is declining. That is no secret. I fear for the realm if he is allowed to continue unchecked.”

“What you are telling me could get you killed,” Lyanna said slowly. “My secret is dangerous, but not so dangerous as that.”

“Perhaps I trust in your honor.” Rhaegar smiled then. “You ought to return to the castle, my lady. I am to be looking for the Knight of the Laughing Tree. It would not do for one of my men to find me with her.”

Lyanna narrowed her eyes at him and said, “You think you’re very charming, don’t you?”

“Am I not?” Rhaegar bowed again. “If I win the tourney tomorrow, my lady, I will name you Queen of Love and Beauty in recognition of your success as the Knight.”

“You are married,” Lyanna said.

“I am,” Rhaegar said, “and if the world were different, you would be riding in the tourney with me and perhaps we could win the wreath for her together.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Lyanna said, but she was laughing despite herself. “Very well. _If_ you win the tourney, you may name me the queen.”

“I take you at your word, my lady.” Rhaegar stepped closer to her, just one step; still, the air between them seemed to grow hot and close. “I will see you in the stands.”

Laughing, Lyanna bade him farewell; and as she left the forest, her footsteps were light and easy. Distantly she heard Rhaegar call, “I found something!” to his men, and she burst into a run, stumbling out of the trees giddy and lightheaded, something strange new taking root inside her.


	11. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is dedicated to Sophie Turner's bisexuality

“It’s time, My Queen,” Tyrion said from the opening of her tent. Daenerys rose, allowing Missandei to fuss over the fall of her cloak for a moment longer, before following her Hand outside to treat with the so-called Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. 

Daenerys’s army had been in the south for a month now. First, they had taken Riverrun back from the Lannisters and restored it to the hands of Edmure and Roslin Tully. Then they had secured the support of the Frey women, who now ruled the Forks. There Daenerys had left part of her forces, along with Sansa and Davos to handle any matters that might arise and to provide aid to the common folk living in the midst of the war. After that, they had moved southeast to lay siege to King’s Landing. 

In truth, Daenerys had never given much thought to the practicalities of reclaiming the capitol. In her daydreams, her army had swarmed over the walls with no resistance and taken the throne; or her dragons had burned the Lannister armies to ash. Neither was possible, and neither would endear her to the people she wished to rule. So instead she laid siege, hoping to choke out Cersei’s armies, and at last Cersei had sent word that she wished to parlay. 

“I don’t trust this,” she told Tyrion as she mounted her horse to ride to neutral territory. “Cersei’s ships have sat off the coast without moving since we arrived. She isn’t going to surrender.”

“No,” Tyrion agreed. “Cersei doesn’t surrender.” 

They met Sansa and Jon on the way, Sansa having ridden down to represent the northern forces. Sansa was wearing a dress that featured both the three-headed dragon of the Targaryens and the direwolf of the Starks; at Jon’s side padded the massive Ghost, watchful and ready. Daenerys’s heart lightened at the sight of them despite herself; she had grown to rely on Sansa’s daily missives from the Forks, with her wry commentary on those who had come to swear themselves to Daenerys and her thoughtful musings on how to best provide aid to the common folk. And then there was Jon, steady as always. 

“I hope your trip south was not too taxing,” Daenerys said to Sansa. 

“I’m quite well, Your Grace,” Sansa replied. “Though I wonder what today might bring.”

“As do we all,” Daenerys said. 

The agreed-upon neutral meeting spot was a tent at the crest of a small hill equidistant between Daenerys’s camped forces and the walls of King’s Landing. Each party left their small contingent of soldiers at the foot of the hill while those involved spoke; there were even seats and a small table that had been brought especially for the occasion. When they arrived, it was to find that Cersei had already seated herself at the head of the table; Daenerys took the chair opposite and gazed into the face of her rival. 

Cersei was still quite beautiful; she had the fine proportions of her family and the fair coloring. There was a sharp, cruel quirk to her eyebrows, though, and an unpleasant cant to her smile when she bade them come in. To her right sat a slender man with thinning hair and the cloak of a maester, though he did not bear the chains. Instead he wore the Hand of the Queen, which made him Qyburn. Daenerys looked then to the man sitting to Cersei’s left; this, she knew, must be Euron Greyjoy. He was watching her already, slightly narrow-eyed and smirking. He sprawled in his chair as easily as if he were at home, one arm casually draped over the back. 

“I see you’ve brought the imp and his whore,” Cersei said coolly, flicking her gaze over Sansa and Tyrion as they sat as well. “I suppose my little brother’s presence is unavoidable, but why is she here? We don’t need a simpering child for this.”

“She is Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell, Warden of the North,” Daenerys replied, equally coolly, “and she is wed to my heir, Jon Snow, son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark. You will treat her with respect or this conversation will be over.”

“And then what?” Qyburn asked. He had a soft, nasal voice; it set Daenerys’s teeth on edge. “You’ll continue throwing your forces at our walls, battering yourself to death? No, I don’t think so.”

“If you were going to use your dragons, you already would have,” Cersei said, examining her fingernails. “You will not breach our defenses and you have no ships. So don’t posture, little Daenerys. We have the upper hand.” 

“If you are so confident in your victory, why did you ask for this parlay?” Daenerys said. 

Instead of answering right away, Cersei turned to fix Tyrion with a poisonous look. “Where is our brother, Tyrion? Locked up in some northern prison?”

“No,” Tyrion said. “We thought—and he agreed—that it would be best if he did not attend this meeting.” He looked his sister over. “Any word on the happy news?”

“It will be a boy,” Cersei said, hand drifting down to her belly. “Don’t you think Jaime would like to know?”

“I see we are no longer dancing around the topic in mixed company,” Tyrion said dryly. “Yes, I should say that our brother has asked we keep the child from harm.”

“I’m glad to see not all family loyalty has died.” Cersei looked about, eyes narrowed. “You ask why I invited you to parlay. It’s very simple. I have not even begun to show you the force I am able to bring down upon you; my mercenaries have stayed safely aboard their ships, which you have not attacked. Perhaps you are afraid of our dragonkiller?” She smirked at Daenerys. “I believe you are already down one.”

“Yes,” Daenerys said. “I suppose that fact must have reached you by now.”

 

“It is no matter. Even with your dragons, our forces outnumber yours, and we are well-supplied and well-rested while your men are tired from fighting ghosts in the north.”

“They were not ghosts—” Jon started to say, but Cersei barreled on without listening. 

“So I have asked you here to offer a choice. Die quickly and easily by surrendering now. Your forces will be shattered, your dragons will be killed, and your reign will be over before it’s begun, but you will not suffer. Refuse, and I make no such promises.” Cersei smiled thinly. “My men have been idle for so very long. They will be looking for entertainment.” She turned to Euron. “How many ships does your fleet have, again?”

“Two hundred at present, Your Grace,” Euron said. He winked at Daenerys and added, “Could have been yours, sweetheart, but you decided to go with my cockless nieces and nephews.”

“Ah yes,” Daenerys said. “Because that is what you need to rule.”

“No cock needed,” Cersei said, “but the ships are certainly worth their weight in gold. What do you choose, little princess?”

Daenerys looked to Tyrion, who was pale but otherwise unreadable, then to Jon who was much worse at hiding his feelings. Her hands tightened into fists, but before she could speak rashly, Sansa rose to her feet, laying one hand gently on Daenerys’s shoulder as she did. 

 

“Two hundred ships?” Sansa asked. 

“What part of that did you not understand, little bird?” Cersei asked. “Are simple sums too much for you now?”

“No,” Sansa said. “It is midday now, is it not?”

“I hardly see what that has to do with anything,” Qyburn said impatiently. “Her Grace has asked for an answer.”

Sansa ignored him. She went to the tent flap and lifted it so they could see the harbor. As they watched, one of the sails dropped, revealing not the lion of the Lannisters or the kraken of the Ironborn, but the three-headed dragon of the Targaryens, its colors visible even from a distance. Then the ship beside it dropped its new sail as well; and on and on, black sails as far as the eye could see. “Two hundred ships for you, you said? I think you may wish to count again, Your Grace.”

Cersei rose to her feet, frowning, as Euron leapt up and paced over to Sansa, passing behind Qyburn. There was a brief flurry of movement; then Qyburn slumped forward, blood pouring from his throat across the table, and Euron was turning to grin at Sansa, bloody knife in hand. 

“Sansa!” Daenerys cried, jumping to her feet, but Sansa was smiling too, and as Daenerys watched in mingled horror and amazement, Euron reached up with his free hand to pull at his own face, turning into the much smaller form of Arya Stark. Arya smiled, teeth bright and uncanny; Daenerys, despite herself, shuddered.

Cersei shouted and started to run, but Arya was too quick. She seized Cersei by the arms and produced rope with which to bind her. Cersei stared up at her in shock, mouth agape up until Arya stuffed a gag in her mouth, at which point she began shouting again. Sansa made a little sharp gesture with her hand and Arya, looking irritated, took the gag back out. 

“—filthy little rat, I should have had them kill you that day—”

“Put it back in, for gods’ sake,” Tyrion said. “I’ve listened to enough of my sister for a lifetime.”

Arya did as he said, seeming uncaring of Daenerys and Jon’s wide-eyed stares. Sansa seemed unmoved, and Daenerys turned accusingly to say, “You knew.”

“Not for sure,” Sansa said. “Before Arya left, we agreed on a code word so I would know it was her.”

“But you knew she could change her face,” Daenerys pressed. 

“Why did you think I sent her south?” Sansa asked, and she smiled like a wolf who had just gotten its prey. 

“Never mind all that,” Tyrion said. “We have more pressing concerns, like that army Cersei’s amassed. Let’s go tell them to lay down their weapons, shall we?”

 

It wasn’t as simple as that, of course. They fought, still, on the beaches of King’s Landing and in the fields, until Cersei’s generals waved the white flag on the third day and withdrew, opening the gates to the capitol so that Daenerys might enter. She took only a small force with her, not wishing to overwhelm the city with new visitors. Cersei they brought along with them, bound on a horse for all to see. 

They rode slowly through the city, slower as they went along and began to gather a crowd in their wake. There was little talking, only quiet murmurs, but she heard her name being repeated, and “Stormborn.” When they at last reached the steps of the Red Keep, there were several hundred people gathered behind her small group. 

Daenerys dismounted first and strode up to stand at the top, looking down over the gathering. There were few men—she supposed anyone fit to fight would have been conscripted into one of the wars by now—and many children. They seemed better-fed than many she had seen as she traveled south, but they did not seem well-off. As they had ridden, she had seen the scorch marks from Cersei’s destruction of the Sept. Whole buildings were gone, streets devastated. Many of the people in the crowd wore black; how many of them were mourning? 

“I am Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen,” she called out, pitching her voice so it might be heard as far as possible. It echoed about the square, ringing louder than seemed possible. “I am the rightful heir to the Iron Throne, and today I come to reclaim my legacy. But I do this not solely for myself, but for you. For a generation you have been ruled by selfish, unfit rulers. First Robert Baratheon, who cared more for his own stomach than your well-being. Then Joffrey the Mad; his brother, Tommen, kind but easily led; and lastly their mother, Cersei Lannister, who I bring to face judgement for her crimes.

“You do not know me. All you know is my father, and the horrors he visited upon you. All I can promise you is that _I am not my father_.” She looked up and clicked her tongue; from the sky, Rhaegal and Drogon came rushing down, sending a cry up among the crowd as they landed on the keep’s towers, looming over all. “I bring to you the power of my dragons and the force of my army to restore peace to the Seven Kingdoms. Any who do not wish to be ruled by me is welcome to leave; but for all who stay, I swear to you I will fight for you as much as I have fought for this moment, now and forever.”

Jon raised his voice then, shouting, “Daenerys of the House Targaryen, the First of Her Name, The Unburnt, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Queen of Meereen, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Chains, and Mother of Dragons! The rightful ruler of the Seven Kingdoms! Will you have her for your queen?”

There was a brief moment of silence; and then a great cheer went up among the people, reverberating along the buildings and streets until Daenerys could swear the sky was singing with it; and with the force of their cries behind her, Daenerys threw open the doors to the Red Keep.

 

Daenerys did not claim the throne on that day. That, she had decided, would wait until her official coronation, which could not happen until the fallout of the war had settled. First, there were pockets of fighting to be dealt with, and forces to recall or deploy. Then there was the matter of resources, and who would be given which lands, and all the daily minutiae of ruling that seemed to take up more time than was physically possible. 

Sansa was monumentally helpful with matters relating to the courtiers and the daily running of the keep, while she let Jon manage the military matters. Still, there were endless nights with Tyrion, others occasionally joining in, discussing the political implications of this decision or that. At Varys’s suggestion, Daenerys reintroduced petitioner’s court and spent one day each week mediating disputes as minor as the exact placement of a fence and as major as determining the line of succession for a plot of land whose owners had all been killed. Sansa often sat in, though she rarely spoke up. Jon attended less often, though he always had good advice, while others who Daenerys was privately noting as probably council members came and went. Missandei was the only one aside from Daenerys who attended every session, and in the evenings afterward they would speak of what they were learning about this strange new land.

“You ought to go out among the people,” Sansa said one day after petitioner’s court had ended. Her clothes had become lighter in color, as if to signal the changing mood, and many noblewomen had followed her example; Daenerys was beginning to suspect Sansa would be extremely useful in influencing the court. “Lady Margaery was beloved because she would go out in person to meet them. Right now they only see you as this mythical figure.”

“Because Varys has been spreading stories,” Daenerys said. 

“Those stories are important,” Sansa said, smiling. “They know nothing of you, so when they hear stories of you heroically and single-handedly saving a thousand slaves—”

“Ha,” Daenerys said. 

“—they find something to love in you. But they will truly love you if you show you are not afraid to be among them.”

“I thought that is what petitioner’s court was for.”

“Petitioner’s court is to give them a voice,” said Varys from behind them, and they both turned quickly. “Apologies for startling you, Your Grace, My Lady. Lady Stark is right. The best goodwill you can earn in the capitol is through going among them.”

“Grey Worm won’t like it,” Daenerys said. 

“Grey Worm doesn’t like anything that puts your shining head into daylight,” Varys said. “Which is a valuable trait in the head of your guard. The Unsullied and your Dothraki are also feared; perhaps bring those you trust along with you to meet the people. If you don’t intend to send them back to their own lands, they will have to become part of this kingdom.” 

“I have given them the option to return home,” Daenerys said. “Very few have taken it.”

“Yes, they are very loyal, aren’t they?” Varys tucked his hands into his sleeves and rested them over his belly. “I like to see that.”

“Yes, of course,” Daenerys said. “And you suggest?”

“Do as Lady Stark suggests,” Varys said. “And once you’re crowned, require all lords to hold petitioner’s courts as you do. Give them recourse for harm, and provide them with aid. In time, perhaps a council with members from each kingdom.”

“You’ve given this a great deal of thought.”

“I have.” Varys dipped his head. “I believe the primary failure of all rulers is to not listening. Power is yours so long as those below you are willing to let you have it.”

“True.” Daenerys turned to Sansa, who had been listening quietly. “If I go out, will you come with me? And Jon as well?”

“I will ask him,” Sansa said. 

“You will have my heirs,” Daenerys said. “They ought to meet you as well.”

“I agree, Your Grace,” Sansa said, smiling. 

So it was that four days later they were traveling the streets, not enclosed as Grey Worm might have liked but on foot with Unsullied about them to ward off those who wished to touch the hem of Daenerys’s dress or catch a lock of her hair. They visited first the orphanages, and Daenerys listened to the worries of the matrons while Jon and Sansa sat with the children, playing games with them. Jon was a bit stiff, but relaxed bit by bit until he was making the children's dragon toys roar in passable imitation of Rhaegal. 

“Is it true the queen rides the dragons?” a tow-headed child asked loudly, perching on the seat behind Jon for a better view. 

“Why don’t you ask her?” Jon suggested. Daenerys, having turned to listen, was startled to see everyone in the room looking toward her. She had not been among children in some time; she forgot how light they could be, and how powerful. She approached Jon and the young boy, crouching down to be eye level. 

“I do ride my dragons,” Daenerys said. “Mostly the big black one. Drogon. And my nephew has ridden one as well.”

“You have?” Sansa blurted out. The children giggled as Jon flushed. 

“Only once,” Jon said. “And not for very long.”

“Still, he did very well,” Daenerys said. “He rode Rhaegal, who is named for his father.”

“Who is Drogon named for?” another child asked. 

“My late husband,” Daenerys said. “He was a khal, a leader among the Dothraki. You may have seen them about the city on their horses.”

“One let me pet his horse,” a small girl said shyly. “It was really soft.”

“Yes, the Dothraki care for their horses a great deal,” Daenerys said. “You should be honored he allowed you to touch it.”

The girl giggled and curled in on herself, blushing. The tow-headed boy at Jon’s side seized Daenerys by the wrist, heedless of her rank or title, and tugged at her. “Tell us about riding the dragons,” he said imperiously, so Daenerys sat beside Jon and took the dragon toy from him. 

“Well,” she began, “we were in the far, far north, beyond the Wall...”

After, as the three of them returned to their escort, Sansa remarked, “You told me hardly any of that before, Jon.”

“I did not know quite how to tell it,” Jon admitted. “Our queen does a much better job.”

 

“Perhaps I should give up the throne and become a bard instead,” Daenerys said lightly. “I hear my brother was quite good at it. Perhaps I have a hidden talent for singing.”

“I’d rather you be queen,” Sansa said. 

“As would I,” Jon said. “As your heir, I forbid you.”

Daenerys threw her head back and laughed. 

 

From the orphanages they went to the hospitals, where there were people still recovering from the dragonfire; and to the burnt ruins of the sept where followers of the seven sifted through rubble looking for bodies or relics. Everywhere they went, Daenerys listened to those who were there, letting them pour out their troubles. She held the hand of a boy the maesters said only had a few days to live, from the infection caused by a wound in his leg; and she sat, wide-eyed and amazed as a new mother lay the infant in her arms and declared she was naming the girl Dany.

“You were right,” she said to Sansa as they returned to the Red Keep, their feet aching but their hearts light. “I should have done this earlier.”

“You’ve been rather busy,” Sansa said dryly. “I doubt anyone blames you for trying to settle the war before attending to such business.”

“A queen should never be too busy for her people,” Daenerys said. 

Once returned to the keep, Sansa invited Daenerys to their chambers for supper, which she accepted gratefully, as she could not stand the thought of an endless court dinner that night. Sansa declared politics a taboo—”I am sick to death of it all,” she said—and asked instead that Daenerys tell them a fairytale. 

“I only know a few,” Daenerys said. 

“That’s quite all right,” Sansa said. “I’m sure we know more than enough to fill the gaps.”

So Daenerys told them the story of the first dragons hatching from the moon; Sansa told the tale of Lann the Clever and how he stole Casterly Rock; and Jon, after much coaxing, told the story of Bael the Bard, once a King-beyond-the-Wall, who fathered a son by a Stark daughter. At that last one, Sansa said she had never heard it.

“It’s a story the free folk tell,” Jon said. Their meal was finished, and they were now sipping at their wine, relaxed for once. “You can see why it is not told so much south of the wall.”

“Yes,” Sansa said, “I suppose I can. We prefer to tell stories where we are the heroes, after all.”

“The story my brother loved to tell most was of Aegon the Dragon,” Daenerys said. “He was always very taken with it. Three dragons, and three riders. He always said if I were born earlier, we would not have lost the throne.”

Jon’s gaze snapped to her. “What does that mean?”

“Well, I don’t know that he was right,” Daenerys said. “But—our sigil is what it is because Aegon had two wives, his sister Rhaenys and Visenya. They each rode a dragon during their conquest, and they were both queen when he was king. Together the three of them form the three-headed dragon.”

Jon absently touched the Targaryen sigil at his belt, staring into nothing. “I see.”

“Would you have married your brother if you had been born earlier?” Sansa asked. 

“Viserys thought so,” Daenerys said. “I don’t know. My understanding is that Rhaegar and Elia’s marriage was of politics, so perhaps not.”

“So we might have had you for our queen regardless.”

“I would not be the same woman I am now,” Daenerys said, smiling. “My life has defined who I am now. I would not be the queen I hope to be without everything I’ve seen, without Tyrion or Missandei or—or without both of you.”

“You’re too kind, Your Grace,” Sansa said. 

“I’ve told you, it’s Daenerys when we’re in private.” Daenerys leaned forward to cup Sansa’s cheek in her hand. “We’re family now.”

Sansa’s gaze shifted to Jon, who was still gazing at nothing in particular. “If we were not—if Jon were truly my half-brother—would you have married him?”

Daenerys withdrew quickly, heat rising to her face. “I—I don’t know.”

“You still love each other,” Sansa said. She reached for Jon and took his hand. He seemed to suddenly come back to himself, looking between the two of them with apprehension. Sansa lifted Jon’s hand and attempted to guide him to Daenerys. Jon pulled back before he touched Daenerys, looking as though he’d been burned. 

“Sansa, what are you doing?”

“I am tired of pretending,” Sasa said. “You are both unhappy, I know it. I don’t mind. I will stay with Arya tonight so that you may have this time together.”

“No, Sansa,” Jon said. “No, you don’t know what you’re saying.” But he sounded as though he were in great pain, and he could not stop his gaze from sliding toward Daenerys. 

Sansa frowned and looked to Daenerys. She was only slightly flushed with wine; Daenerys did not think this was drunkness, but rather boldness enabled by a touch of spirits. “Do you truly not desire each other?”

“She is my aunt.”

“And I am your cousin,” Sansa said. “You have lain with her before, and there is no danger of children.”

“That isn’t the point,” Jon said tightly. “I am married to _you_.”

“Well,” Sansa said, mouth turning mulish, “if you will not touch her, then I will do it for you.” She rose gracefully and came around the table to kneel before Daenerys. Daenerys caught her breath, newly astonished at Sansa’s cut-marble beauty, and held it as Sansa placed one hand over Daenerys’s knee, the other on her wrist. “If she will permit it,” Sansa added, quieter now.

“I permit it,” Daenerys said, mouth dry. They both looked to Jon, who had gone very rigid in his seat, his hands clenched on the table as though it took great effort to keep himself from reaching out. She met his eyes and saw the same heat rising in her belly reflected in his eyes. After a moment, he nodded very slightly. 

Sansa took this permission for what it was. The hand on Daenerys’s wrist came to her neck, where Sansa carefully pushed back Daenerys’s loose hair, then came to rest just below the curve of her jaw. Sansa’s hands were cool, soft. Daenerys’s eyes closed without her consciously deciding to do so, and she forced herself to look down into Sansa’s eyes. 

“Have you done this before?” Daenerys asked, very quietly so that only Sansa could hear. “With a woman, I mean?”

“No,” Sansa said. “I hardly knew it was possible until—until someone told me it was. Is it very different?”

“Not very,” Daenerys said. 

“Then I suppose I will learn,” Sansa said, and she rose up on her knees to kiss Daenerys. 

Daenerys had not kissed a woman since Doreah, so long ago now. Back then, Doreah had taken the lead, knowing Daenerys was ignorant of love and sex, and Daenerys had gratefully followed. Daenerys knew now that Doreah had been very careful never to overstep her bounds, never kissing as though she wanted something, but as though she had something to give. 

Sansa couldn’t have been more different. It wasn’t that Sansa was greedy, or forceful, but rather that she was starved. She caught on quick, her lips opening to Daenerys, and then Daenerys was drowning, the taste of lemon in her mouth and the rosemary-fresh smell of Sansa’s hair filling her lungs. Daenerys found her hand at Sansa’s slim waist, feeling the hard line of stays beneath the smooth fabric, and kissed back with all she had learned in those years since, until Sansa pulled away, cheeks flushed and mouth very red. 

“Not so different,” Sansa said, and she smiled, bright and unrestrained. She looked over her shoulder to Jon, and Daenerys abruptly remembered that he still sat there. “Shall I kiss her again, husband?”

Jon shivered visibly. A flush was rising up his neck, and Daenerys knew that if he stood, they would see sure sign of his arousal. “Yes,” Jon said in a low, rough voice.

Sansa met Daenerys’s eyes and licked her lips, seemingly unconsciously. This time when they kissed, Daenerys buried her hands in Sansa’s thick hair, drawing her close until Sansa’s hands were on Daenerys’s thighs, hot even through the layers she wore. When they parted, Daenerys cupped Sansa’s face before she could duck her head in embarrassment and traced her thumb along the line of Sansa’s lips.

“You’re so beautiful,” Daenerys said without thinking. Sansa’s cheek heated beneath her palm. “You are.”

“So are you,” Sansa said softly. “And so brave. I could never do what you’ve done.”

“You would have made a great queen,” Daenerys said. 

“But I could never ride a dragon,” Sansa said with a little laugh. 

“You wouldn’t need to,” Daenerys said. She kissed the corner of Sansa’s mouth, marveling at how easy it was to do, and how simple it seemed. She had not thought of love, of affection since her first arrival at Winterfell; she had not thought she was destined to have it again. But here Sansa was offering herself, when Jon would not, or could not, and there was no artifice in her kisses. Sansa wanted this too. 

Sansa kissed back, then stood up suddenly, casting a look over her shoulder to Jon before looking down at Daenerys with an anxious expression. “I did not mean to—this wasn’t supposed to happen this way.”

“How did you imagine it?”

“I thought I would let you—and let you be happy,” Sansa said, faltering. “I only meant to—I’m being selfish, this wasn’t meant to be about what I want.”

Daenerys caught her hand and brought it to rest over her heart. “Sansa,” she said softly. “Jon will not because he is married to you and, I think, because he loves you.”

“It is possible to love two people,” Sansa said. “Jon, I told you I believed that.”

“But,” Daenerys said, tugging at Sansa’s hand to reclaim her attention, “he fears you will feel abandoned. As do I.” Daenerys looked past Sansa to Jon, who was watching them slack-jawed. “I do love Jon, very dearly. But I would not have him without you there as well, because I think—I think I am growing to love you as well, Sansa.”

Sansa’s eyes went very wide. “Oh,” she said, and then she stopped. Her fingers flexed slightly against Daenerys’s breast.

“Now that is settled,” Daenerys said, “I think, Jon, you should come here.”

Jon rose jerkily, smoothing his hands over his shirt in an attempt to keep his dignity, but there was no hiding his interest. Daenerys pressed her lips together to suppress a smug smile. When he reached them, she took his hand too and drew him down for a kiss, then tugged Sansa to her as well. Both of them were wide-eyed, amazed, and Daenerys supposed she ought to be as well, but something about this seemed so obvious, so clear. She gently nudged Jon to Sansa until he took the hint and kissed his wife, both of them still holding Daenerys’s hands as they did. 

“I don’t understand,” Jon said when they drew away from each other. “Is this—what are we doing?”

“The dragon has three heads,” Daenerys said. “Aegon of old had two wives; I have a wife and a husband—not mine by law, but perhaps in truth?”

“You would have that?” Sansa asked. 

“I would have you both at my side as long as you wish to remain,” Daenerys said. “Even when you must return north to Winterfell, I would like to call you beloved. I—I never thought I’d find another I felt such faith in, let alone two.” 

Sansa bit her lip and glanced shyly at Jon. “Is she right? That you love me?”

“Yes,” Jon said instantly. 

“I love you,” Sansa said. She looked from Jon to Daenerys. “And you, my queen.”

“Daenerys,” Daenerys said. 

“My queen,” Sansa said insistently, and she kissed Daenerys’s further protests from her mouth. 

 

Daenerys’s days continued to be long and difficult, but her nights—at night, she would take the secret passageways to Jon and Sansa’s rooms, or they to hers, and they would sit and talk until talking turned to kissing and kissing into laughter and caresses. They did not make love for some time, until Sansa at last declared that she tired of waiting. Daenerys learned the taste of Sansa’s flesh and the sweetness between her legs, and how Sansa flushed all over when she was filled with pleasure. Jon, at first, was hesitant about his place, but he learned soon enough that they both did not mind watching him with the other, and that indeed there were things they could all do as one. 

Daenerys did not tell anyone, but Missandei, as she always did, seemed to know. She smiled at Daenerys when she came by in the mornings to rouse her and dress her for the day and saw the marks left behind on Daenerys’s pale skin. They did not discuss it; but Daenerys saw Missandei and Sansa walking together and laughing, and when that evening Missandei remarked, “Lady Stark seems a noble woman,” Daenerys knew she had her approval. 

“Once you are crowned, do you suppose you will marry again?” Sansa asked one evening, her head pillowed against Daenerys’s ribs. On her other side, Jon had fallen asleep, his face slack and youthful. “They will ask you to, if nothing else.”

“They may ask,” Daenerys said. “I will not answer. I have my heir. What use is a husband?”

“Politics,” Sansa suggested. 

“I am done using my body to barter for power,” Daenerys said. “I am not ashamed of having done so in the past, but now I would rather stay true to what I want.”

“Hmm?”

“You, you idiot,” Daenerys said fondly. She kissed the top of Sansa’s head. “And Jon, of course.”

“You’d give that up for us?”

“What am I giving up?” Daenerys asked. “I have everything I could ask for.”

“Potential allies, perhaps.”

“We will simply have to win them over through charm,” Daenerys said. 

“And dragons,” Sansa said. 

“I hope it never comes to that again,” Daenerys said. “Are you afraid of something, dearest?”

Sansa thought it over. “A little,” she admitted. “The kingdom is far from settled, and there is a long road ahead to true stability.”

“That is true,” Daenerys said. “But I am queen. I would not have my power diminished through marriage, nor would I like to continue this tradition of girls being used as pawns for political power. If they wish to bargain with me, let them bargain with me as a ruler.”

“I like the sound of that,” Sansa said. “Perhaps one day no girl will be forced to marry for her family’s gain.”

“Perhaps one day no girl will be forced at all,” Daenerys said. They looked at each other in understanding; then Daenerys pulled Sansa tighter against her side. “Come, sleep now.”

Obediently, Sansa closed her eyes. Daenerys tucked her face against the top of Sansa’s head and lay awake for some time, listening to the breathing of her wolves.

 

The night before her coronation, Daenerys could not sleep. She paced her room at first, then went to visit Rhaegal and Drogon in their new home of the old arena. Even once the night’s watch was called, she felt restless and on edge. At last, her feet took her down to the dungeons of the keep, all the way to the largest cell where Cersei Lannister sat, awake despite the late hour. 

She was nearly ready to give birth now, her stomach large and heavy. In deference to her condition, she had been given a real bed, and Daenerys had ordered that she be fed well. Samwell Tarly had been serving as her maester until he confessed that Cersei frightened him, and then Daenerys had assigned Gilly to the task. Still, Cersei looked unwell, her eyes shadowed and her face twisted with anger. 

“Why are you here?” Cersei called as Daenerys approached. “Come to gloat?”

“No,” Daenerys said. “I wanted to speak with you.”

“Speak away,” Cersei said. “I’m hardly in any condition to refuse.” 

One of the guards brought Daenerys a stool to sit upon, and she thanked him before perching on it, out of reach in case Cersei thought to lunge through the bars. Daenerys regarded the former queen for a moment, seeing in her the burnt streets and the hollow faces of the people of King’s Landing. 

Recalling what Sansa had asked her what felt like a lifetime ago, Daenerys said, “Why did you want to be queen?”

Cersei stared at her, one eyebrow raised. “Why does anyone wish to rule? Power.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s all? It’s everything.” Cersei shook her head. “Until I was queen, I had nothing. I was a bargaining chip, a tool to be used.”

“Nothing except wealth and security,” Daenerys said dryly. “A roof over your head and protection.”

“Protection from a man who sold me to a husband who beat me and despised me,” Cersei said. “I watched for _years_ as Robert drove this kingdom into the ground and was never allowed to say a word. And eventually I realized that no one would give me power. I had to take it for myself.“ 

“You think you were better than him?”

“I don’t spend my days whoring and drinking.”

“But you beggar your country for war and pride,” Daenerys said. “It isn’t power you want. You want supremacy.”

“Is that not the same?” Cersei said. “Look at you. In your quest to be queen, you’ve conquered every place you’ve ever been like Aegon of old.”

“No,” Daenerys said, “I liberated them.”

“And gave them a new master. You may pretend to be their savior, but I know you love the sight of them on their knees before you as much as I do,” Cersei said. “Lie to me, lie to your sycophants all you want, but don’t lie to yourself. You like that they’re afraid of you.”

“I did,” Daenerys admitted. “I _wanted_ people to fear me, but not longer.”

“Yet though you could have stayed across the sea, you came here to conquer. Now you have all of Westeros too.”

“I always give them the option to leave.”

“And go where?” Cersei laughed. “People cling to the familiar. You pretend you’re better than me, but you sweep in with your dragons and your barbarians and kill as many as I ever have.”

“Yes,” Daenerys said. “I have killed good men to get here, and I regret that. Do you?”

“Never for one second,” Cersei said. 

They regarded each other impassively for several more moments. Eventually, Daenerys said, “There will be a trial, once the child is born. You will be judged for those you killed in the dragonfire explosion, noble and common alike.”

“What’s the point of a trial? You’ll kill me anyway.”

“Likely,” Daenerys acknowledged. “You’re too dangerous to leave alive. But the people of King’s Landing have the right to see you answer for what you’ve done.”

“I don’t owe them anything.”

“No,” Daenerys said. “You owe them _everything_.” She leaned in so Cersei could see her clearer. “That is the difference between us. You believe you can do everything yourself, and value no one but yourself. I put my faith in people, and that faith is rewarded.”

Cersei spat at her. Daenerys pulled back quickly, and the spittle only caught the hem of her sleeve. “You’re a naive child,” Cersei said. “You put your faith in vipers—my deformed little brother, that Stark bitch, that smirking eunuch—they’ll all betray you in time.”

“If they do, I’ll know it’s because I lost their faith,” Daenerys said calmly. “And if I lose their faith, I will deserve it.”

Cersei laughed incredulously. “You’re as mad as your father,” she said. “I only wish I could be alive long enough to see the day they turn on you.”

“You’d never live long enough to see that,” Daenerys said. She rose to her feet and nodded to the guard who had been standing by on watch. “Goodbye, Cersei.”

Cersei cursed at her as she strode away, but Daenerys paid her no heed. She felt strangely lighter for having seen the poison of Cersei’s worldview. Perhaps it was the perspective it provided, or the realization that she did trust Tyrion, and Sansa and Jon and all those close to her. Once she would have agreed with much Cersei had said, but she had softened some, though not to the way she had been before her marriage. She now knew when she could be gentle, and when she could not, when before she had buried every vulnerable part of her. But that was no way to live.

She reached her rooms, ready at last to sleep, but paused just within. After a moment of consideration, she went to the secret door Varys had shown her upon her arrival, and slipped through it, navigating the narrow way by memory until she came to the entrance to Sansa and Jon’s rooms. 

They were asleep when she crept inside, but they had told her to use the door as she wished, so when she slid into bed beside Jon, he roused only to say her name and kiss her on the forehead. On his other side, Sansa pushed herself up onto her elbow and said, “Daenerys?”

“Go back to sleep,” Daenerys said. “It’s late.”

Sansa reached over Jon to take Daenerys’s hand in a brief, tight grip, before lowering herself back down. Daenerys pressed into Jon’s side and closed her eyes, sleep at last finding her.

 

Daenerys wore white for her coronation. She wore no jewelry, nor did she have her hair elaborately arranged. The ceremony was deliberately simple, as was her crown, and when it was over she came to the front steps of the Red Keep to greet her people. Jon was a step behind her, wearing the Targaryen colors, and Sansa a step behind him. Yara, freed from her prison, was there too, clad in mourning colors for her brother. Ellaria Sand would not come; she had not left her room since they had taken her from her cell and buried her daughter. 

The square before the Red Keep was filled past capacity, people lining up in the streets to try to catch a glimpse of their new queen. Among the Westerosi, she saw Dothraki, mostly keeping to themselves, but not entirely; there were free folk too, and Dornish and Ironborn among them, and Daenerys had to take a moment to breathe in the sight. This was what she had fought for, what Jon had fought for, what Yara had suffered for: to see their people safe and at peace.

She stepped forward, out of the shadow of the keep, and called out, “People of the Seven Kingdoms and beyond.” The crowd fell silent, their faces turning up toward her. “I claim the Iron Throne by my birthright, but I will keep it through your faith. You have suffered for generations under weak and violent rulers. I aim to change that. In the days and weeks to come, we will together rebuild from the ashes of what came before. I look to you for guidance, and for strength, and we will create a land worth leaving to our children. This I swear to you.” 

“Queen Daenerys of House Targaryen, first of her name!” shouted Tyrion. “Long may she reign!”

“Long may she reign!” the crowd echoed back.

 

After, she walked to the great, hulking mass of the Iron Throne with her council at her back. It was still imposing, still immense, but Daenerys had faith she could fill it. There would be celebrations that evening, feasting and merriment throughout the city, but for now there was the business of ruling. There would be trials, and unpleasant decisions to make. 

But as she settled into her seat, she could think of nothing other than the possibilities that faced them. She looked out at her council: Tyrion, her Hand; Varys, her spy; Jon and Sansa, representatives of the north and her heirs; Missandei and Grey Worm to speak for the Unsullied and the Dothraki; and Davos, Master of Coin. It wasn’t a full council, not yet, but it was a start. They gathered in a loose semi-circle before her throne, waiting for her to speak. 

“Shall we begin?” she said.


	12. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a fair amount of thoughts about parental death in this chapter.

Life at Daenerys’s court couldn’t have been more different from what Sansa had known before. In the days of Joffrey and Cersei, the fight for favor had been relentless. Even among the Tyrell set, there had been scheming and in-fighting, and Sansa had never known who she could trust. There would always be those kind of courtiers, of course; but they learned quickly that Daenerys did not look kindly on duplicity and there was more to gain from being useful than merely being decoration. 

There was also the marked change in her status. After her father was killed, Sansa had been held in a seeming position of favor by Cersei, but everyone knew befriending Sansa was social poison. So she had spent most of her days alone, save for Shae and, later, the Tyrells. Even they hadn’t had much time for her, busy as they were with their own plans. 

Now, Sansa was at the center of King’s Landing’s social life. If someone wanted to have Daenerys’s ear, they came to her or Missandei. She was invited to dine with more people than was physically possible, and she found herself in the unenviable position of playing politics through strategic suppers and luncheons. 

She began to long for Winterfell soon after the coronation. Arya had left the day after Cersei’s execution, saying that King’s Landing made her sick. Sansa could hardly blame her; there were parts of the palace she simply avoided because of the memories they awoke in her. During the day she hardly saw Daenerys or Jon, and now all three of them were so busy that they hardly had energy to talk when they met at night. 

So at first Sansa did not realize that she had missed her monthly courses. It had happened before, when she was tired or stressed, and she did not think much of it when she did realize they were late. It was only when she was brought lemon cakes for dessert and found bile rising at the back of her throat that she thought perhaps something was wrong. 

Samwell Tarly, though, just smiled when he examined her. “Forgive me, Lady Stark, but I think it’s only the usual things,” he said, one hand lightly pressed to her belly. 

“The usual things?” she asked. 

“When a woman is with child,” he said. Then, when Sansa said nothing, only stared at him, he said, “Ah, perhaps I should have led with that.”

“Perhaps,” Sansa agreed faintly. 

She walked around in a daze for the rest of the day, hardly taking in anything anyone said to her. She absently noticed that Brienne was frowning at her, and that Mira Forrester seemed overly concerned, but she couldn’t stop thinking about it: with child. 

Once, all she had ever wanted was to be a wife and mother. She had been so eager to bear Joffrey’s children. Then she had been terrified of it, willing to carve out her mattress just to hide that she was able, and then her first two marriages and now—

Jon’s child. Daenerys’s heir. 

Sansa had been around eleven when her mother explained to her how coupling and babies worked. Sansa had remembered when her mother was pregnant with Rickon, how at ease she had seemed, but then she had been on her fifth child, so Sansa had thought pregnancy was hardly anything to worry about, just a beautiful experience the entire time. Now she knew it was rarely that easy, and she was afraid of what could happen. She was afraid she wasn’t ready.

Cersei’s child had been born safely; Sansa had held the boy for a few moments when Tyrion had been sending Jaime away from King’s Landing for the duration of Cersei’s trial. Since then she had hardly seen the infant, as Tyrion was determined to keep him out of harm’s way until he was old enough to send somewhere safe. Perhaps the north, he’d said. 

Perhaps it had been because it was Cersei’s child, but Sansa had felt little affection for the wrinkled thing. Its scrunched face and tiny red fists had frightened her, a little; she had never seen a child so young before. What if she felt the same about her own? What if she held the child and felt nothing? 

At this thought she went to stand in an isolated corner and breathe, her hand pressed to her abdomen. She rested her forehead against the cool stone wall and tried to clear her mind. 

“Lady Stark?” There was a gentle hand between her shoulder blades. “Lady Stark, are you all right?”

It took her a moment to recognize Missandei’s voice. When she did, she drew in a deep breath to steady herself and turned with a smile. “Hello, Missandei, I’m fine. I just needed a moment.”

“You’re clearly not fine,” Missandei said. “You’re pale as a sheet. Come, Her Grace’s chambers aren’t far.” 

Missandei guided Sansa by the elbow through the hall and into Daenerys’s rooms. Once there, she brought tea and fruit and sat opposite Sansa until she had eaten it all, patiently waiting for her to speak first. Sansa found Missandei’s company restful, but just now she didn’t want to speak with anyone except her mother, and her mother was gone. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Missandei finally asked. 

Sansa’s eyes were suddenly hot with tears. “No,” she said. 

“Perhaps you ought to,” Missandei said. “If not with me, then with someone. Something is clearly troubling you, and I know Her Grace would want me to ensure that you’re all right.”

“I’m fine, I just—” Sansa looked toward the windows overlooking the harbor. “Do you know, my mother was killed at her brother’s wedding?”

“I did hear that, my lady,” Missandei said quietly. “Lord Edmure’s people spoke of it while we were at Riverrun.”

“Ramsay told me how they died,” Sansa said. “His father was there. My mother watched my brother die and his wife have her babe cut from her belly before her throat was slit.”

“That’s awful.” Missandei reached across the table to take Sansa’s hand. “I’m so sorry that happened to them.”

“I used to wish I’d been there too,” Sansa whispered. “Now I—I just miss them.”

“Of course you do,” Missandei said. “That’s only natural.”

“And I wish she were here so I could tell her,” Sansa said, voice growing thick. “That—that I—” She looked down, her other hand having gone to her stomach without her consciously willing it, and Missandei’s hand tightened on hers. 

“Oh,” she said. “Oh, Sansa.”

“I know, I ought to be happy,” Sansa said. “It’s what we’ve all been waiting for, isn’t it?”

“You are allowed to feel however you must,” Missandei said. “I know that, were I with child, I would wish for a mother as well.”

“Did you ever know your mother?”

“No,” Missandei said. “Perhaps in some ways that is a blessing, for I do not know enough to miss her.”

“You’re only saying that to be kind,” Sansa said wryly. “I know between the two of us I have lived the far more fortunate life.”

“It isn’t a competition,” Missandei said. “You need not pitch your sorrow or suffering against another’s.”

“It’s only that I feel silly complaining when I am here, alive, with a child and a husband who loves me.”

“And a queen who adores you,” Missandei said with a small smile. 

“Ah,” Sansa said, blushing. “Yes.”

“Sansa, I can’t know what it is you are feeling now,” Missandei said. “And I understand if you wish to keep this to yourself until you are further along, but Her Grace and Lord Snow will do everything in their power to make you happy, and I know they would be delighted by this news.” Her voice softened. “And your mother is proud of you, wherever she may be now.”

“I don’t know,” Sansa said, “she never liked Jon very much,” and Missandei gave a startled laugh. Despite herself, Sansa found herself smiling back. 

“Well, perhaps she would be a little confused by your circumstances,” Missandei said. “But she would want to see you happy above all else, would she not?”

Sansa thought of her mother’s hands in her hair, her voice asking, “Do you wish to marry the prince?” She thought of sewing with her, of Catelyn at her side when she was ill, and how Catelyn had risked her own life to free Jaime Lannister for the chance of rescuing Sansa. How Catelyn had brought her Brienne, and through her, her safe return to Jon’s arms. 

“She would,” she said.

“Then she would be proud of you.” Missandei gave Sansa’s hand one last squeeze before rising to her feet. “I have business to attend to, Lady Stark, but you are welcome to rest here as long as you need. I am sure Her Grace would not mind.” 

“You wouldn’t mind keeping this between us for now?” Sansa asked. 

“Of course,” Missandei said. “But don’t keep it a secret too long.” She gave a small curtsey before leaving the room. Sansa curled her hands around the still-warm cup of tea and breathed in the earthy smell. Through the open window came the smell of the sea, and she thought wistfully of snow. 

 

She waited two more weeks before she told Jon and Daenerys; she wanted to be sure at least two months had passed before she said anything. But though she’d had plenty of time to think of how to tell them, she hadn’t found any way to say it, so when they sat to eat she said, almost off-handedly, “I’m with child.”

Daenerys froze as she was reaching for her wine glass. Jon dropped his knife with a loud clatter. They both stared at her, wide-eyed. 

“I am two or three months along,” Sansa said. “I am not quite sure, but Sam did confirm it.”

“A child,” Daenerys said faintly. “ _Our_ child.”

And hearing it said that way made something in Sansa ease. “Yes,” she said. “All of ours.”

“Oh my gods,” Jon said. “Sansa!” He seized her hands, face shining with joy. “A child!”

Daenerys began to laugh, raising her hands to her face as her eyes grew bright. “How wonderful!”

“I—I think I would like to return to Winterfell for my confinement,” Sansa said, looking down. “It’s still home to me, and the child will be a Stark. They ought to be born in the north.”

“Oh—yes.” Daenerys grew somber. “I suppose you both would need to return eventually.”

“I don’t mean to—it isn’t that I don’t wish to stay here with you—“ Sansa rushed to say, feeling her cheeks heat. 

“No, I understand,” Daenerys said. “I’ve known this day would come. How fortunate are we that I may travel easily enough to Winterfell on my dragons?” She smiled at both of them. “And I hardly think it would seem strange for the queen to visit her heirs a few times a year.”

“We could come south as well,” Sansa said. “And when the child is old enough, they should be raised here, to learn from you.”

“Perhaps you might not always travel by dragon,” Jon said. “You might see the entirety of your kingdom if you went by land.”

“A yearly census,” Daenerys said. “To ensure the wellbeing of my people, and of my heir.” She reached out to take Sansa’s hand, then Jon’s. “That isn’t to say I won’t miss you terribly, but we all have our duty.”

“I’m sorry,” Sansa said quietly. 

“Don’t be,” Daenerys said. “I’ve been happier these past few months than I’ve been in my entire life.” She raised Sansa’s hand to her lips. “Let us celebrate this happy news. Come, don’t look so sad. This is a happy occasion.” 

“Come to Winterfell with us,” Jon said, glancing at Sansa. “At least when the baby is due to be born. You should be there.”

“Yes,” Sansa agreed. She took Jon’s other hand in hers. “It will be your heir, after all.”

“ _Our_ heir, in truth,” Daenerys said. “The child of House Targaryen and House Stark, born to watch over both the north and the south.”

“Yes,” Sansa said. “I suppose you’re right.” 

 

In the end, Daenerys stayed at Winterfell for the full final three months of Sansa’s confinement. She had been pregnant once and having her about was a comfort when her belly swelled further than she thought possible and it became necessary to spend most of her day in bed. Arya was no use, taking one look at Sansa and announcing that she would never have children. Brienne, for all that she was intent on being helpful, had no idea what to do. 

But with Daenerys and Jon, and Sam and his wife Gilly, Sansa felt safe. She imagined she could feel her mother too in the walls of Winterfell, still waiting to take Sansa’s hand and guide her through life. At night she dreamed sometimes of Catelyn and her father, of them taking her in their arms. Other times she dreamed of placing a child in Ned’s hands, watching his face when he held his grandchild in his arms. At first the dreams made her weep, wracking sobs that shook her whole body and made Jon fret, but after a while she began to take comfort in them. 

The birth itself was a blur of pain and heat and shouting. She remembered Daenerys holding one hand and Jon holding the other; she remembered Sam’s hands on her belly and Gilly’s on her back as they urged her to push; and she remembered Jon’s awed voice when he said, “She’s a girl.”

“Oh,” Sansa said when the baby was placed into her arms. She had very black hair and blue eyes that were hardly open; and Sansa was so warm inside, so deliriously happy just at the sight of her that she thought she might die from it. “She’s beautiful.”

“She looks like you,” Daenerys said to Jon. 

“I think she looks like Sansa,” Jon said. 

“She’s just been born, she doesn’t look like anything,” said Arya, finally turning around to peek at them. She made a face and looked away again. “Ugh. I am _never_ having children.”

“I think she looks like all of us,” Sansa said softly. She gently nudged her finger into the tiny clasp of her daughter’s hand. “What shall we name her?”

“Lyanna,” suggested Daenerys. 

“No,” Jon said. “I don’t wish her to be burdened with a name with so much history behind it.”

“Could we call her Catelyn?” Sansa asked shyly. “Jon, I know that my mother was not always kind to you—”

“No,” Jon said. “No, Catelyn is a fine name.” He gave Sansa a small smile. “If she grows up to be half the woman Lady Catelyn was, she will be a fine queen.”

“Catelyn Targaryen,” Daenerys said thoughtfully. “First of her name.”

In Sansa’s arms, Catelyn squirmed and opened her eyes very slightly wider. Sansa’s breath caught. “She likes it.”

“Ah, she seems to.” Daenerys lay down beside Sansa, watching Catelyn with wide, fascinated eyes. “Hello there Catelyn.”

“Catelyn it is,” Sansa said. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Arya slip from the room, giving Sansa a pained smile as she did so. Sansa grinned to herself and pressed a kiss to Catelyn’s head. 

“You have so much to look forward to,” Jon said, reaching out to brush her downy hair. “Our Cat.”

One day, Sansa thought, this small creature in her arms would be a princess. She could picture her now, long-limbed and coltish like Arya, with her father’s large eyes and Daenerys’s iron will. The day would come when Sansa would have to let her go; and she understood now the way her mother had looked at her the day she had said she wanted to marry Joffrey and why Catelyn had cried the day they went south. She was already fearing the day she would have to watch her go; but she knew too that when it did, she would do so knowing their daughter would be watched over. 

Once Sansa had dreamed of living a fairy tale: of marrying a prince and living happily ever after. Once Sansa had dreamed of love. She was startled to find that, just this once, dreams did come true.

“Welcome, Catelyn,” Sansa said. “Long may you reign.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was truly an experiment in just how self-indulgent one person can get, and the answer is: very. Thank you people who came along for the ride, I truly did not expect this many people to read this when I thought the only person who was remotely interested in this was me. Anyway, feel free to follow me on twitter at @hkafterdark if you want to watch my realtime reactions to season 8 because I'm betting literally nothing in this will come to pass.


End file.
